Nevadan Cleanse
by wafflepudding
Summary: The conception and cessation of Madness Combat's Nevada.
1. The Auditor

Ash.

A forest had been thick with life. Leaves had aspirated the golden sunlight, unbreakably fragile shafts that illuminated each movement below. Vines had been arteries carrying the blood of the forest with a ceaseless pulse. Omnipresent insects had yielded that the earth beneath should never be still. The sun would fall to sate the trees, the trees would fall to sate the fauna, and the fauna would fall to sate the trees again. Death gave way to life. Chaos reigned supreme.

There were some who did not like disorder. A forest was not ordered, nor was it clean, nor was it perfect. Ash, though, was pure. Where once there was a vexingly inefficient machine, there was now a thin layer of white.

Forests were not the only agitators of ITS neurosis. Apes aspirated the volatile air, their arteries pulsed with disgusting blood, and the mites on their skins yielded that their epidermises should never be still. IT was the fire that cleansed the forest, and IT would be the fire to cleanse humanity.

10,000 Years Later

"I'm only doing this for the education, you know. I'm more than a brute with a gun. I'll make something of myself after I finish these six service years, you'll see. The rest of you Agency sheep probably finish your shifts and gamble until you drink yourselves to sleep. You know what I do? Night classes. See, I'm getting free courses at the best university in Nevada! You need more than a gun and some muscle to do that." The young man took another puff of his cigarette. "I don't assume you're doing anything after the Agency."

The older fellow beside him scoffed and lit his fag. "I still say you won't achieve anything. The world is getting hard to live in, and you need more than some free college education to succeed. What, do you think I don't know things too? I went to primary. I can list facts all night. For example: Did you know, long before humans got here, they think Nevada was a forest?"

"Who thinks that?" The young man countered, and the older fellow shrugged.

"I dunno. They." He took another drag of black smoke.

"Cigarettes are going to kill you, you know. I only smoke a little bit, but you? You're a dead man." Said the young one. He sucked down plumes of the hot vapor, every molecule of smoke spinning and drifting wildly down his lungs, lodging in the recesses, sticking to his teeth, embedding in his throat. "They cause cancer, you know. They're disgusting. Ever heard a smoker's cough? See the spit flying all over the place? Some smokers get a hole right in their throat, you know." Finally, the cigarette dropped to the earth, ground by a heel into pure ash. Then the young man drew another.

A figure appeared before them two, ITS visage flickering black.

"The hell did you get in here?" Demanded the older man, raising his gun. He quickly spoke into his headset. "This is the West Gate, we have an anti-teleportation perimeter breach, please respond, over."

IT eyed the gun aimed at ITS chest. The piece was perfect. Hard carbon steel bore the markless mark of ritual cleaning, and there was not a smudge to be found on the entire weapon. When the trigger was pulled, a bolt would move and a bullet would leave the barrel with the perfect precision of a calculated spin. IT was pleased.

Beside the gun was a man who'd just removed a cigarette from its box and was preparing to light it. This act would be very unclean, and very displeasing. IT held ITS hand towards the young man and took the very tip of the cigarette between two fingers. The cigarette was lit, and the young man began to enjoy.

"I asked how you got in here." Said the older man.

"You'd better not just stand there. The Agency isn't one of those rundown organizations that gets queasy at the sight of something ethereal. You'd better fuck off or get killed."

The lit end of the young man's cigarette became black, and black flames raced through tobacco, past the young man's lips, and up through his nose, eyes, and pores. 47 bullets passed harmlessly through ITS ghostly figure, so it destroyed the messy consciousness of the older fellow and replaced it with obedience. Both men stood straighter. Their aspiration stopped, their pulsing arteries ceased, and the mites on their skins immediately died. The gate slid open to allow The Auditor through.


	2. The Clown

Conversation stopped when he shouted. He had been noticed again and he'd have to leave. The silence would have embarrassed him a few years ago. He would have apologized loudly and walked away, leaving his balls and a generous tip on the table.

But now, he sat in silence and let the conversation gradually return. He cursed when he looked down and saw his coffee spilt on his lap. He focused for a moment, trying to feel the heat, but shook his head at the futility.

He used what was left of his coffee to wash down the pills. Already he was at thrice the intended dosage, but he was not concerned about the side effects. "Discoloration. As if I would otherwise die pretty." Then he took a stand and left nothing but the meal's price on the table. He no longer cared to tip.

He hurried back to his house, hoping not to shout again. The spasms were the only things that hurt these days, and they were bad enough when he was alone. Around others, he'd be concerned for and bothered. "Screw people." He said under his breath.

Then he was home, and bottles of medicine waited for him. He downed two pills and splashed his face with water. Only four times over dosage, he'd be fine.

He looked in the mirror. He did see it, come to think of it. His hair was thinning, and emerging from the scalp were a few green strands. They came out painlessly. So did some other hair. Then his hands were painlessly hitting his face, and then he broke the mirror painlessly against his fist. He only stopped himself just before drawing a shard of mirror across his hand. He dropped the piece with disgust and smeared blood onto a towel.

"There was nothing quite like television to get rid of your brain." He said, taking a seat on a ragged black couch. It was unusual for him to find a sticky note on the screen. He retrieved it and went to the window, opening the drapes and then the filthy glass itself just to let in enough light.

_Stop taking pills,_ read the note. He shook his head. "I don't remember leaving this," he said. "I sure got to be one of those nut jobs, didn't I?" He crumpled the note and threw it out the window, then shut it and redrew the curtain. He went to watch television again, but another note was on the screen. "God, I hate this brain." It was the same note, so he tore it in half and dropped it to the floor. Then he picked the remote up from his couch and took another seat. The yellow sticky was back. "I should've known the shit wouldn't go away. Fuck it, then." He said, and turned on the television.

It flickered to life, casting a pale glow on the drab interior. Nevadan Homes was on. He didn't much care for it, but good TV wasn't worth finding another channel. He lay with eyes half closed as the contractors built houses behind a yellow note.

"So we'll use white marble for the island, and we'll complement it with these skygrey tiles, and Hugh Tricks needs to stop popping his fucking insanity pills." Said the contractor on TV.

"Hugh Tricks," Hugh said. "That's my name."

"Which will all look great over this varnished hardwood, and Hugh Tricks isn't insane at all, is he Marsha?" Said the contractor.

"Not one bit, Jim, he needs to get off his meds right away, and I love all of this cabinet space." Marsha replied.

Hugh flicked off the television and stood up. "I'll teach you to tell me what to do, that I will. I'll take as many pills as I goddamn please." He walked to his cabinet and pulled it open, fishing out one of the many bottles. The television came back on.

"Now, Hugh, you'd better not take those pills." Marsha said sternly. "Someone will be quite unhappy with you."

Hugh opened the cap and poured the entire bottle into his hand. With the pills came a thousand white maggots, burrowing in and out of the drugs, chewing on white powder, and leaving behind trails of blood. He downed them all and opened his cabinet again, searching for his last pint of Jack. He couldn't even taste it, so it didn't burn a bit when he brought away the empty bottle.

"Hugh, you've made the wrong choice." Jim said. But this time, his voice had taken on a sinister tone. "Don't try to ignore me. You'll never beat the disease."

Hugh moved to the living room and shoved the television off of its stand.

"Hugh, honey, you've been running from me since you were a kid. Don't you think it's time you faced your fears?" Marsha asked.

Hugh wanted to say that he wasn't afraid of anything, but since he was a child the doctors had told him that if he ignored the illness it would get better, that the hallucinations would go away if he didn't respond.

"Your doctors are all dead, Hugh. Those old bags of shit are rotting in the ground by now." Said Jim.

"Truly, Hugh, Jim is right. We're not going away. You should embrace the gifts we've given you. There's no more pain." Marsha tried to calm him.

"You used to be weak." Jim's voice had grown very deep and very angry. "Back when the treatments were working, back when you had feelings. Pain, fear, embarrassment. You ungrateful man, you weak mortal, you soft flesh."

Hugh missed his pain, fear, and embarrassment.

"No you don't, Hugh. You don't miss anything anymore. Longing went away last year or so. And why would you want a silly thing like embarrassment standing in your way? Did you want to be embarrassed when you had a spasm in that restaurant? You should be glad, Hugh; you're free to do anything you like without the hindrance of pain or doubt."

Hugh's vision shifted, and he realized that he'd never before taken this much medicine at once before. He didn't feel any nausea, but suddenly he was vomiting on the floor.

"See, Hugh..." Hugh couldn't hear the rest: He'd just fallen loudly against the wall. In his distorted vision he saw the TV, screen cracked, sticky note smoldering black. Jim and Marsha were unnervingly sideways. Maggots spilled from Hugh's mouth, and he had another spasm.

"You can't run from me." Came the voice. Jim's head flickered oddly, and an incessant high note filled Hugh's ears, along with something like popping static, or crackling flames...

"The child is dead." Jim seemed to be all around him. Hugh stiffened when he felt Marsha's hand on his shoulder. It was cold, and he didn't dare to look at it.

"You'll see where your pills get you."

The room was hot and his skin was dry. Hugh's left hand lay on his chest, his right on a rug matted with vomit. His eyes opened to darkness, aside from a staticky television. He rose from the couch as soon has his eyes adjusted to the dark. He smelled piss. Pain shot through his head.

"Pain." Hugh said, surprised. "Surprise." And a small smile jumped across his face. He leapt excitedly from his couch, but tripped over unsteady feet, breaking in half his wooden coffee table.

"Oh." He said. He hadn't felt pain like this in a long time, and he'd forgotten how much it hurt. Still, if his bottle of pills had brought back pain, there was no telling what else would be returned to him. He staggered to his feet and tread through the dark to his cabinet, tripping twice along the way. Once there, he reached inside and felt around for a bottle. He removed one, popped the cap, and held it upside down over his mouth. But nothing came out.

Unperturbed, he dropped the empty bottle and took another. But it was empty as well. He reached in again, and again, but each one he tapped made the hated sound of a bottle when it's hollow. Hugh threw open the kitchen window and was met with a sight he'd never expected.

His kitchen was trashed. Empty bottles littered the floor, vomit drizzled the counter, and there were bloody handprints on the walls. He looked at his own hands, and yes, they were covered in dried blood.

"What happened?" Hugh muttered to himself, just as his headache throbbed. He rushed to the bathroom and drunk from the faucet, then covered his face and hair in water. He spat the taste of vomit from his mouth, then looked up at the mirror. His hair was green and his face was white. "My God." Hugh murmured.

Hugh sat again on his couch. His calm demeanor was gone. It was all he could do not to panic when he looked around his devastated living room. He sat this way for thirty minutes or so, painfully awake, painfully aware of his state of being. If a green lock fell across his face he'd jump at the sight of it, unused to such coloring. If a bird hit the window his hands would clench down on the couch. Eventually, Hugh began to wonder how long he had been unconscious. His memory of the time past was marred by frequent blackouts and perpetual sleep. There were only a few flashes of memory left, and the opening of bottles comprised them most.

Hugh thought back to his last whole memory. He had been lying against the wall, listening to voices from a broken television. It had been a hallucination, of course, but he remembered something else.

He dropped to his knees and crawled to the TV stand, rubbing along the carpet to find two yellow pieces. Sifting through the trash did not produce the halves of the note, and he sat back in relief. Then he saw them poking from a medicine bottle.

He snatched it up and pulled the two pieces out. Together, they read just what he'd feared. _Stop taking pills._

"If this is here... am I still delusional?" He asked, but got no response. There was a pill at the bottom of the bottle he held, so he gobbled it and swirled his finger around the bottom for the dust. He looked at the staticky television, expecting Jim and Marsha to jump onto the screen at any second. But they did not.

Hugh stepped out and walked to the next apartment. He pounded on the door, and after a minute, a young woman opened it a crack. Before she could shut it, he jammed his foot in the gap and pried it open. She stepped back in fright.

"Girl," He said, holding the two strips of paper before her. "Do you see this?"

She cowered in fear.

"These papers, girl, do you see them?" He demanded.

"Yes, yes, I see them." She sobbed. Hugh slumped against the frame in shock.

"Was that real?" He asked himself. "Have they ever been hallucinations?"

"Never." Said the girl. Only, it wasn't the girl. Black flames licked up her body and her pupils expanded to fill her eyes. Beside that, her voice was much like Jim's had been. "That's why your pills are useless."

Hugh pulled back his fist and heaved it at her face. She fell to the ground, face spattered and nose dripping with blood. But the black eyes hadn't left.

"The pain you feel? The panic? It's temporary. Your entire cabinet of pills will give you maybe a day of relief. In fact, feel this." The girl pulled him to the ground with her and raked her nails along his arms. The cuts stung for a moment, but Hugh could tell that they should have hurt far more. "You don't need pain, Hugh. After all, you can still feel the good things." The girl slipped a steady hand down his belly. He grabbed it and hit her savagely, disgusted by the disease that attacked him.

"You're not real!" He shouted at the girl. "You're nothing!"

But the girl's eyes weren't black anymore. They were green and wide and there were tears streaming from their ends. Her trembling hand was pinned near his crotch, and she was begging with him, pleading that he was right, that she was nothing, that he could take what he wanted if he'd just leave. Hugh stood quickly. The girl was wearing a black dress and mascara was now smeared down blushing cheeks. This girl had been about to go out. She wouldn't anymore.

"This is what your emotions get you, Hugh. An innocent girl bleeding on the ground." Said a voice in his head.

"I am so sorry." He whispered in a broken voice. "Jesus, I am so sorry." The girl merely turned her head and wept. He left and shut the door, then raced back through his room, searching desperately for a pill, any pill, or maybe even a knife.

He knew what he had to do. Shards of broken glass lined his bathroom sink, and he grabbed one without hesitation. Emotions warred in his brain, begging him to slash open his wrists and pleading that he drop the blade. He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were wide and there were tears streaming from the ends.

"Do you like this?" Said someone behind him. It was Jim's voice, and the girl's, but it didn't have the same anger as before. Still, it wasn't soothing as Marsha's. "Do you want to feel this way?"

"Of course not." Hugh replied. He didn't care if it was a hallucination. "That's why I'm ending it." And Hugh cut up the vein.

Hugh turned to face his fear before he died. Already, a pool had collected by his left foot. The man... the thing he faced seemed to shift in and out of reality. Red eyes were narrowed on a skull swathed in dark fire. Hugh was afraid.

"That is one way out." IT said. "But there's another as well."

"What? Succumb to you? Give in to the disease? I won't give up my humanity just to live in this godforsaken..." Hugh was interrupted by a flaming hand around his wrist. The cut sealed itself up, and Hugh felt a surge of energy rush through him.

"What is humanity but disease? You and your kin walk the Earth covered in sickness, and you're afraid of some virus in your frontal lobe?" With the terrible energy IT poured into Hugh's body, Hugh gathered his strength and shoved the black figure back, buckling the tile wall behind IT. IT was unfazed. "Tell me, Hugh." IT said. "What is it that you want?"

Hugh wiped the salt from his cheeks. "I want to stop hurting people. Even... I want to help them."

IT - whatever IT was - IT nodded. "There are greater evils than you in the world, Hugh." And the black figure vanished into the wall behind.

Then there was a scream from the room next door. Hugh dropped the blade and rushed into the hallway, then kicked open the door from which the shout had emerged. He saw a man pinning a girl in a black dress to the ground. The man was yelling at her and pushing her hand toward his crotch. She was pleading with him, agreeing with what he said, begging him not to hurt her. Hugh grabbed a lamp from a table and bashed it over the man's head with incredible, dark strength. The man looked up at him with wild eyes, green hair, pale skin, and rampant emotion. For Hugh, it was an easy decision to finally kill the man below him.

He helped the girl to her feet and asked if she was alright. She threw her arms around him and cried into his chest, thanking him so much for his help. Hugh wondered why she wasn't scared of him. Wasn't his hair as green as the man he'd just killed? Wasn't he just as confusing and scary a sight?

In the mirror on her wall, he saw himself giving her comfort. But his hair wasn't green and his skin wasn't white. He looked strong and handsome, just as he had in his youth. As he received the thanks of the girl and helped her recover, ITS voice sounded in Hugh's head. "You see, Hugh? You never needed to kill yourself. This is you: this devilish handsome thing. You only ever needed to kill the weakness in you. And now it's gone. Now we can spread strength together. We can correct the imperfections of your Earth, Tricks."

And Tricks agreed. After he'd spent intimate moments cleaning the girl's wounds, physical and otherwise, he returned to his apartment to take a final look at his humanity. It was littered with pill bottles and covered in vomit. But he remembered the good things too. The feeling of beauty with the girl he'd helped, the tenderness in his mother's touch, and the buzz from a pint of Jack. He'd accepted the disease now, and he was ready to let his pain and fear fade away.

But to remember his humanity, he took a bottle of green dye and poured it over soft brown hair, and painted his face with white. Green hair wasn't the humanity that he loved, but it had come with the humanity that his pills used to provide. Beside that, when he looked in the mirror, the sight made him laugh a hearty laugh.

He looked a bit like a clown, come to think of it. He'd loved clowns as a kid. And Tricks was a nice name; Hugh had never suited him.

Tricks. Yeah, he liked the sound of that. Trick. Tricky.

Tricky the Clown.


	3. The Sheriff

"Upon further investigation, six semen samples and seventeen strands of hair were found in the vehicle of the culprit."

Most women wouldn't abide this channel. Even during the day they'd be disgusted with it, but in the waning hours of night when they were splayed on satin sheets and savoring a Djarum Black? No, it took a special kind of woman to ignore the Nevada Police Radio.

"DNA evidence has so far been inconclusive, but distinctly colored green hairs are giving the SINPD confidence that the culprit will be located."

That's why Sheriff Jay didn't like most women. They were fragile and needy and they took all his money. Prostitutes, on the other hand, didn't give a shit and were quiet and took a couple hundred at most. Of course, Sheriff Jay's friendship with Daddy Flow made them free. But Sheriff Jay was a nice guy.

"I always give a tip. Of one kind or another." He said, chuckling. The prostitute didn't pay any mind to his joke. "Be careful saying nothing, baby. I might just fall in love."

She snorted and rolled over.

Then his phone rang. "Sheriff Jay, SINPD." He yawned into the speaker. "Who are you and why the fuck are you bothering me?"

"It's some bad shit, Jay. The Agency's East Complex just got busted up." It was Tommy. As usual, Tommy wasn't calling to say hello.

"What? Which building? And is the shipment alright?" Sheriff Jay asked. He noted lovingly and duly that the prostitute wasn't interested in his conversation.

"Not one building, Jay. The entire damn complex. The shipment is as good as gone, too. The whole place is a biohazard." Tommy said.

"A biohazard? What happened?"

"We don't know. Last messages out were about a breach in the anti-teleportation perimeter, gunfire in the halls, and then a power shutdown. After that, the communications were cut."

Sheriff Jay's expression grew grim as Tommy listed off the final messages. "Ellie. Out." Jay said, and she slipped from the covers to the hallway door. "Now, Tommygun, don't be exaggerating right now. It's far too late for so grievous a joke."

"The complex has been on fire since the attack. We've had firemen deluging it for a half hour, but the smoke got so bad that they had to abandon the firetrucks by the gate. There's something wrong here, Jay."

"Is it that their shipment wasn't delivered? Because that seems pretty wrong to me. Twenty percent of two hundred keys, Tommygun, that's quite a bit to lose to some thugs. What happened to our guards?" Sheriff Jay demanded, sitting up now.

"By the toxicity of those fumes, everyone in the complex is dead." Said Tommy.

"And in breaking news," droned the radio, "The East Complex of The Agency has been consumed in black flames. It is unknown at this time how the combustion occurred, as the SINPD has not been forthcoming with information, but there has been much speculation that..." Sheriff Jay turned off the radio. It was no longer a sedative or a distraction.

"Are you heading over?" Tommy asked.

Sheriff Jay said yes and hung up the phone. He was equal parts surprised and upset. Surprised because The Agency, _especially_ the East Complex, was among the most heavily armed entities in Nevada. Ever since Sheriff John had dipped into Agency profits thirty years ago in exchange for The Agency's immunity to the police, it had turned from a small settlement of white collar crime to a sprawling city of wrongdoing. Upset because thirty percent of the SINPD's revenue came from protecting The Agency, and the SINPD protected with vigor. The SINPD received huge portions of cash to protect Agency innovation with the newest weaponry available, which happened to come from Agency innovation in which the SINPD was heavily invested. In fact, The Agency and the SINPD had become so codependent that some considered them to be one and the same. If either one acted, the other reacted. And the Sheriff could only dread the reaction to this.

Sheriff Jay stepped from his 2004 Corvette and slammed the door. Driving up, he had wondered why the police perimeter was so far from the complex itself, but he understood the moment he touched open air. The smoke was irritating even at this distance. Sheriff Jay found Tommy in a group of police, watching the fire with a wet cloth over his mouth. Tommy walked to the Sheriff with a nervous gait and checked to ensure that they were alone.

Before the Sheriff could ask for news, Tommy began to speak. "Jay, Jay, this isn't good. We sent in three officers with gas masks and they haven't come back. Their communication was cut the moment they entered the building. Be straight with me, Jay, do you know who did this? Dammit man! Who did you piss off?"

Sheriff Jay shook his head. "I'm as confused as you. I assume the other Agency complexes are on lockdown?"

Tommy nodded. "No one's getting into North or Base. But this looks like extortion, Jay, and if the orchestrator of this operation approaches you, I think you need to give him what he wants. The group clearly had teleportation technology that outrivaled the Agency's own, so there's no telling what other advantages they might have."

"I'll make note." Said the Sheriff.

Sheriff Jay learned everything he could from those who surrounded the building, but everything he could was very little. He felt beaten and unproductive when he got back into his car, and jumped when the passenger seat spoke. "You have a problem here." Said a darkly dressed figure on the other side of the console.

Sheriff Jay drew a gun and held it towards his passenger. "This is my daddy's old gun. One of the first revolvers; a true antique. I'd hate to waste it on some carjacker."

"I know who's occupying the East Complex. I also know what he wants. Maybe we could make a deal." Said the man, overflowing with confidence. Cocky bastards annoyed the Sheriff.

"Occupying, you say? Now who the hell could be occupying this poisonous deathtrap?"

"Poisonous people. But it's not as much of a deathtrap as you think. The men and women inside are alive and well. Very well, in fact." Said the man.

"I have trouble believing that. Listen, whatever deal you're proposing is worthless to me. I don't take kindly to being threatened, and I'm sure as hell not negotiating with you or your boss. You've bit off more than you can chew here, and I suggest you leave." Sheriff Jay said.

The man may have smirked under his hood. The Sheriff didn't know, but it didn't matter. He'd done this before, and an aggressive messenger didn't concern him. No, Sheriff Jay was excited. The last few years had seen his Nevadan empire prosperous but mostly unopposed. This talk of occupation could give him the chance to flex some Agency muscle, and possibly to ward off future extortion.

As the man stepped from the car and watched the Sheriff drive away, Sheriff Jay grinned and dialed Ellie.

"Hey, Ellie? It's Jay. Meet me back at that hotel. Yeah... I have reason to celebrate."


	4. The Soldier

"As far as I'm concerned, this is a salvage mission. It's been four days and nobody's come out. We'll locate whatever research needs to be preserved and leave. It'll take an hour at most." Said James.

"Explain to me, then, why we're armed with experimental Sublab shit." Said Kara. "I've been doing this for four years, rookie, and I've never been sent anywhere boasting this kind of artillery."

"I hear Sheriff Jay got some intel that he wouldn't share with The Agency. He expects us to meet resistance in there." Said Harry.

"We all got the same briefing this morning, right? Anyone else read 'fire at will' and 'take no prisoners'? We're going in to kill people. Sheriff Jay doesn't care about East Complex's chemical experiments, he..." Kara was interrupted by James.

"He might care about them a little. Rumor has is that those 'chemicals' are mostly heroin. Rumor has it that Sheriff Jay's been taking a dip." James said with a smirk, and Harry couldn't quell the grin attacking his relationship with Kara. (Kara didn't like jokes, and she really didn't like James.) But nobody took the East Complex drug rumors seriously. It was just a bit of fun.

"He's sending us in to take the complex back." Kara finished. "But I can't imagine who we're taking it back from."

"Some teleporting ghouls and gooks and other monsters of the scary kind. Come on, Kara, there's nothing alive in there." James.

Kara rolled her eyes. She wasn't about to argue with James. He was a rookie and a clown and he made her feel tired. The intercom buzzed to life.

"All Squadron A units be prepared for mobilization in five minutes." Came the dispassionate voice of Jack The Intercom Guy. Harry and James loved Jack: Jack got just as pissed off as everyone else did in the morning. He didn't hide it, either. "I repeat, all you bitch-ass gravediggers be out back or wherever the hell. You know."

The intercom turned off, and James sighed. "I'll sure miss Jack The Intercom Guy. This'll be the last time we hear from him, won't it, Harry? After all, Kara isn't about to save us from the East Complex boogeyman. Might as well say our prayers."

_Harry'd better excuse himself before he pisses me off,_ Kara thought as Harry stifled a laugh. The door to the lockers opened just as she finished cinching her armbands.

"Did you lagging grubs just now finish dressing? Five minutes early is ten minutes late. Get out back before I render you incapable of duty. Hustle, soldiers!" Came the grinding shout of old Group Director Samuel. Group Director Samuel should rightfully have been called Colonel Samuel, but The Agency was not an official military group and had adopted non-military titles. Harry had to stop James from mocking Group Director Samuel to his face. James loved to hate Group Director Samuel.

The trio followed their Group Director to the back to meet the rest of the Squadron. They'd been drilling in preparation for battle. In fact, the rest of the Squadron was already sweaty.

"That's some hard drilling." Harry said, climbing into a truck. "Sammy was really pushing you guys, wasn't he?" Harry asked a worn out member of the squadron.

"Yeah." The member replied, addressing Harry, James, and Kara. "Director Samuel is expecting some friction. We're on our top game."

"Damn, Kara, it looks like you were right." Said James. "It's a good thing we have you to protect us."

Harry put his arm around Kara and pulled her in to show that he was ignoring James's quips. She leaned into the embrace for a moment, then pulled away. She had to bring her top game. No distractions.

The drive to East Complex was quiet. They knew they'd arrived when the truck rolled to a stop and the door banged open. Squadron A gathered to receive a final briefing before they began.

"Alright, Grunts, I won't bullshit you." Grated Group Director Samuel. "You might be looking at some heavy resistance when you get in there. I wasn't told this directly, but Task Director Adams heavily implied that we'd be up against some well armed aggressors. Do not take this mission lightly, and do not be fooled by this morning's briefing: Your primary mission is not scavenging, it's elimination.

"Our scientists have been working tirelessly to develop a buffer against this smoke you're seeing. I may add that I am personally impressed that they've accomplished this in a mere three hours after this attack occurred and the order was given. I am passing you each a packet of filters for your gas masks. They should last 72 hours each in the case that something goes wrong and you cannot escape. It is imperative that you exchange filters every four hours, I repeat, do not neglect your filters.

"As you can see, this area is off limits to the media and the police have already dispersed, so we're alone here. You may encounter communication interference on the inside of the complex. You'll have to rely on yourselves to stay organized. So stay focused, Grunts. Be wary. Truly. I wish you good luck." Group Director Samuel ended his speech and sent them in with a chipper, "Knock 'em dead, Grunts!" And they moved inside.

It was 0500 hours, and morning light could not penetrate the thick smoke surrounding the complex. Each squadron member was forced to turn on their helm lights and flashlights immediately after passing the high, stone gate. Scanning the Earth below, Harry raised his eyebrows at what looked to be a large spread of bullet holes. Squadron A divided into groups for each of the six buildings, and Kara was quick to volunteer for the middle building, the farthest from any exit.

Harry, James, Kara, and three other Squadron members tread cautiously toward the East Complex barracks. "Alright, let's do a full sweep of the first floor, then work our way up." Said Kara. "There should be about nine floors going up, and if we're overwhelmed on our way back down, the fire escape is located on the west side. Assuming that our team is undamaged once we've made it down, we can begin sweeping the underground portion of the building. Are we ready?"

The group said yes and stepped in. Kara looked around. Power had clearly been shut down, but the emergency lights were still functional. The floor and walls were illuminated with red strips. Visibility was good. Some light smoke lingered on the ground; it rolled at the touch of disturbing feet. The lobby and dining room were abandoned, and chairs lay scattered about their tables. Kara examined the tabletops. They were covered in trays with food half eaten.

Kara attempted to send their progress back to base, but as suspected, communication was down.

They met no resistance on Floor One. Kara gave a signal to approach the stairwell, and three of her squadmates followed her. But Harry was following James to the elevator. It opened with an audible ding.

"Harry!" Kara hissed. He spun towards her voice as though he was being reprimanded. Remorse was plain on his face, but James only smiled as he stepped into the elevator. James took a guiltless bite of a banana from the dining room. Harry took a step closer to her. "Never mind." She waved him off, and Harry rode to Floor Two with James while Kara took the stairs.

Floors Two and Three were board for officers. The hallways were luxurious and thick and well padded with carpet, but they didn't offer Kara any comfort. Each room was equipped with a bed, a mini-fridge, a toilet, and a shower. Kara was avoiding Harry, so she buddied with a handsome squadmate named Matt. He whistled as they searched the rooms. "If only my quarters were like this." He dreamed. Kara didn't respond. "Are you aiming for officer, Kara?" She nodded with a manner that tolerated no conversation. She was as curt as ever.

Floors Two and Three were clear, and clocks showed 0530 hours. The group moved to Floor Four. This was the community shower and locker. The tile floor was still wet, and soap dried in the drains. James made some echoing jokes that Kara did not pay attention to. The place was searched, and Floor Five was waiting. James stayed behind the group to relieve himself into a drain.

0600 hours. Floors Five and Six.

This was board for higher ranking cadets who'd been with the agency for at least a year. Rooms were smaller and closer together, and the hallways were thin and unpadded. These were the rooms that Squadron A and B boarded in at the North Complex. Kara was familiar with the three beds and small toilet room in each one. She couldn't help but notice the pervasive personalization that was so common among Agency cadets. One room had a Nevadan Rockers poster on the wall, another was stacked with homemade paintings and pictures, and they all were full of photos from home. Kara's buddy, Matt, picked up a photo from one of the rooms. It was of Matt's friend with spiky red hair. They finished the sweep. Still no resistance.

Seven and Eight were reserved for true rookies, agents even greener than James. Those who had served less than a year got no rooms, just a large dormitory full of messy bunks. Meeting no opposition, Kara began to wonder if there truly was a threat in the East Complex. Of course all of these agents didn't disappear. They didn't seem to be dead, though. Only gone.

Floor Nine, the final floor, was as empty as the rest of them, but for the pool tables and dartboards it housed. Having cleared the building to the top, Kara thought it prudent that the group meet.

"It is 0630 hours, and we're clear so far." She said. "But for the life of me I couldn't figure out where everybody went. These barracks are listed to house almost a hundred men, am I correct?" She was.

"They don't seem to be dead. Maybe they're hiding in the basement. Or, maybe they've fled to another building. The question is why the smoke didn't kill them and leave them dead in Floors One and Four." Matt said.

"They may have mobilized during the attack." Suggested Harry, who was straining to ignore a tempting game of pool played by James and the other two squadmates. "So, I say we check the basement. We'll either find them there or it'll be empty and we can leave the complex to report to Director Samuel. This is more cut and dried than I would've thought."

"So it seems." Kara said softly. She'd employed a soft tone since entering the complex, but her caution seemed useless when she heard the sharp rap of a cue against the cue ball.

Harry saw her irritation. "James is a jerk." He said. But Kara didn't feel much passion behind his words. He at least got a peck on the cheek for the attempt.

James sunk the nine ball with expert skill. The other two players slapped him on the back, and he shrugged at their congratulations and compliments. "What can I say," he grinned, "I've got fuckall to do other than play pool and masturbate."

Everyone laughed but Harry and Kara. Then one of the losers of the game spoke up. "You all know what's weird?" He asked. His name was Erik. "Corey, Casey, and Brutus. Those were the three officers sent into this complex to investigate after it was attacked. They didn't have gas masks, but they were definitely exposed to the smoke. Did any of you see their bodies when we came through the gate?"

Everyone shook their heads. "No." Said the other loser, Alex. "I didn't see anything. And I was looking around."

Silence.

"So, the ghouls and gooks are real." Said James.

"We can worry about them when we report back to Group Director Samuel." Assured Kara. "Until then, let's finish the underground portion and get out quickly. These filters are supposed to be effective, but I still don't want to spend too long in this smoke."

They all agreed. That's when the emergency power shut down.

All lights searched the room. Nothing had changed, except...

"There's a gate blocking the stairwell." Said Matt. He pushed on it, but it was steel and it wouldn't move. "Shit."

Everyone moved to the stairs to investigate. The gate was thick and heavy and had been nailed from the ground halfway to the ceiling with no noise at all. "Somebody's here." Said Kara. "Weapons ready." The group collectively drew their weapons. And nothing happened.

They waited for about a minute. There was no movement, no attack, and no sound but the ragged breathing of their own group. "Should we take the fire escape down? It looks clear." Asked Matt. His hands fidgeted on his gun.

Kara shook her head. "Our objective is to clear the complex. We'll face this head on." She began kicking at the gate. The noise resounded through the ninth floor, and likely through the floors below, but all pretense of sneaking was gone. The enemy knew where they were. What would be the purpose of silence?

The echoes of her kicks were joined by those of Harry and Alex. James hung back, smiling with a pool cue; Matt stood nervously in the center; and Erik, gun shaking, stood close to him.

Their kicks soon broke through the drywall, and the gate clattered down the stairs. But it had tired Kara, and she determined that if they met a similar obstacle they'd face it with hot lead. So they swept Floors Eight and Seven. They were clear. By 0700 hours they had swept Floors Six and Five. They were clear as well. Then they reached Floor Four.

They were quiet in the stairwell. The community shower, though, was not quiet. Clear against the deathly stillness was the sound of water rushing from the shower head and draining down the grate. Steam mingled with smoke and rose into the stairs.

If the water was on, the emergency power must have been back. Kara turned off her lights. The rest of the group followed suit. Kara slid from the cover of the stairwell to that of a locker, and, pistol hot, peered at the source of the water. The silhouette of a clothed man was dimly lit under manmade rain.

The man's features were unclear. No part of him moved aside from the glinting droplets of water that rolled from his soaked coat to the floor. His arms were at his sides, palms forward, and he did not seem to be at all conscious of Kara's presence.

Yes he was. Kara could feel his invisible eyes burning like lit matches.

No, he couldn't see her. The only thing to see seemed to be him.

It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking. Kara could only observe what threat he posed. And, as she peered closer, she could see rivulets of water dripping from a big gun in his right hand.

The emergency lights flickered off. For a dreadful moment, Kara felt very not alone. She felt very much like she could feel the man's breath just behind her. An entire minute passed by with nothing but the drip of water, clenched muscles, and the looming possibility of death.

The lights flickered back on. Maybe it was her imagination, but it seemed to Kara that the man had gotten one shower head closer to her. But his position had not changed.

She wasn't sure where her squadmates were. She thought they had followed her to hide behind the locker, but she couldn't see him. All she could see was the man with the gun. But now was not the time to be paralyzed. Now was not the time for fear. She narrowed her eyes and steeled herself. This man was no more a threat to her than anyone else. She was just as well armed as him, and she was protected by a locker's cover.

She gave no warning, no question, no time to react. Kara fired three successive rounds at the man. The lights flickered out once again, and there came the sound of a body hitting the floor. Her lights came on with the rest of her squad's. They all came together and approached the body with the utmost care.

"Oh, Jesus." Said Matt when he saw the body. "Oh, Axel, no."

Kara trained her light on the man's body. He wore an Agency vest and had an Agency gun. It was Matt's friend with the spiky red hair.

"No, Axel, what the hell are you doing?" Matt said, bending over his friend. The rivulets of water coursing from his coat to the drain had been replaced by winding runnels of blood. "Axel? Axel, can you hear me?" Matt began to do compressions on Axel's chest. "Come on, Axel, are you there?"

Axel was dead. His life was draining into the East Complex's water recycling system as Matt pressed.

"Keep sweeping." Said Kara.

James whistled. "Yep, we're packing some heavy shit." He said, sticking a finger into one of the three gaping holes on Axel's chest.

"Hey, back off!" Matt shouted, pushing James back in a fit of hysteria. "Don't touch him! He's my friend!"

"Well, was." James replied with wolf teeth. Matt took a swing at James.

"Knock it off." Commanded Kara. "We can seek medical attention for your friend once this complex is clear."

"Knock it off?" Matt asked, approaching Kara. "You're telling me to knock it off? You shot him! You shot him dead!"

"The boogeyman was only trying to take a shower." James.

"We don't have time for this. We need to focus. Bring our top game, remember?" Kara reminded him.

Matt shook his head. "Not under you. Not under some trigger-happy bitch."

Kara could have punched him in the nose, tripped him over his friend, and slammed his head against the tile floor. She could have taken her pistol and whipped him on the cheek. She could even have shot him in the kneecap. But that would not help her to retain control. She had to keep calm. "Desertion is unacceptable. If you defect, you'll be penalized." Her face didn't reveal any of the thoughts behind it.

Matt paused. Then, petulantly, he said, "I'll report this." Kara nodded and ordered him to sweep. After Matt stalked off, only James and Kara stood by the body. They were quiet for a moment.

"You've really got a firm grip on their balls, don't you? Matt and Harry don't get to have thoughts anymore." Said James to Kara. James didn't seem to be joking any longer.

Kara looked at James in the eye, granting him a rare moment of acknowledgement. "I only do what I need to." And James kept on sweeping.

Floor Four was soon cleared. They made sure of it, checking every locker and every inch of shower for any hostile force. None were left but a bloody Axel. The group plodded over wet tile to Floor Three. Matt would not buddy with Kara, Kara would not buddy with Harry or James, and Alex was inseparable from Erik. So Kara searched rooms by herself.

She entered a room alone. It was as deserted as ever, barren of motion but for the flickering emergency lights. The clock said 0730 hours. She checked the room diligently, even opening drawers and cabinets for signs of something odd. But it was fruitless. She stepped out into the hallway ready to search the next room. She didn't hear James's incessant jokes or Harry's audible desire to please, so it was quiet in both directions. But at her feet she saw something strange. A line of blood ran over the floor.

The trail started at the stairwell and progressed down the narrow hallway, leading her past several intersections and turns before it stopped. The trail led under the door of one of the rooms. Kara drew her weapon, counted to three, and kicked open the door. She was met with nothing but the stares of Alex and Erik. "What are you doing?" They asked.

"Is either one of you bleeding?" Was her reply. They shook their heads. Something was in the room with them.

Kara shut and locked the door. Nothing would get out during this search. She turned over tables, tore down pictures, and flipped the mattress off of the bed. Erik and Alex helped her, but not with nearly the same vigor. Kara searched for ten minutes before she fell to her knees and they forced her to stop. "Kara." Said Erik. "There's nothing in here."

But she could hear it. Just behind her, a creaking in the floorboards, a breath whispering in the air. She felt its jaw nestling against her hair and tilting towards her neck. She could sense its incisors shining an unearthly white. She felt its teeth stroke the hairs on her flesh. Her fragile collarbone was liable to be bitten at any moment, shoulder sure to be closed by hungry lips, vein bound to be grazed by a thirsty tongue. Kara shuddered.

There was nobody behind her, though. Only Alex and Erik. And out the door, the mist on the ground was so heavy that she couldn't have seen any blood. She swatted it away, sending it out in waves, and revealing nothing but hardwood beneath.

"It seems..." She began. She was at a loss for words. "It seems I was mistaken." She finally breathed. They finished the sweep of Room Three. Or Floor Four. Whatever it was.

Kara's five squadmates stood near her, all observing her like she was some volatile, unsteady animal. All but James, who stared into hers with wide, keen eyes. "The ghouls and gooks haven't got us yet." He said to her. They all laughed, but James didn't.

"Let's move on." Kara said distractedly. Her eyes were unfocused, and she was certainly lost somewhere outside of this room.

"Harry, why don't you buddy with Matt." Advised James. And they all headed to Floor Two, James and Kara tailing the group. James led the dazed Kara into the first room, then shut the door and locked it behind them. He stood by the door and watched her. She was already sweeping, already wandering from bathroom to bed to closet, searching each with decreasingly deft movements. Their gas masks both lay on the ground; they didn't see any smoke in this room.

0800 hours.

"I'm feeling tired, Kara." Said James. "Mind if I have a seat?" She didn't reply, so he sat on the end of the bed. She kept searching, checking the bathroom again, browsing the cabinets, returning to the bathroom. When she passed him by, James grabbed her by the waist and turned her with a firm hand. "Take a seat, Kara." He sat her down on the bed. Then he lay down on his back, arms folded across his stomach. She followed suit after a moment.

He looked at her again. For her, even resting on the couch was not resting. Her eyes darted about the ceiling as though she were still searching for something. James began to speak softly. "You know, Kara, I was pretty shaken up about Axel in the bathroom. I didn't want to tell anyone, but I've been a bit on edge since then. I feel..." He studied her for a moment. "I always seem confident, Kara, and that's not an accident. I try to stay in control. But since Axel, I've felt helpless. I still feel vulnerable."

At last, she closed her eyes. They stayed closed for a long time, and when James didn't think she'd say anything else, he began to stand so he could sit on another chair.

"No you don't." She said, touching his hand. She had him lie down again. "Why are you trying to make me feel... I mean, I never thought... why are you doing this?"

James looked at her. Most often, her features were set in a stiff, determined way. Now she was calm, face relaxed, eyes still closed. And she had blonde hair, too. One could tell now, more than ever, that she was afraid. But James had noticed all of that a long time ago. A character never fooled him.

"Your team needs you to be strong." He replied. "They need you to be rested, too. Pushing harder is no way for a leader to fight fear."

Kara's eyes were open now. She rolled onto him, lips parted, body desperate to thank him. James stopped the kiss with a thumb on her lips, but then looked at her as though they'd been kissing for minutes. "A leader needs to be focused." He reminded her. "Top game."

There was a knock at the door. Kara stood, fear still alive, but confidence renewed. "That is correct, soldier."

"What's going on in there?" Asked Harry. He knocked again. Kara marched to the door and unlocked it precisely and frugally, as though every movement was a commodity that need be spared. If Harry had been worried about what Kara and James were doing, her expression instantly relieved his fear. She was more business, more top game, than ever before. And after the fear this place had inspired in her, she was back with a vengeance.

"Floor Two is complete. Let's move, Floor One is waiting." She led them down as a single group. The buddy system would not pack the firepower she planned to rain on this building.

"What happened in there?" Harry asked. "She seems back to normal."

"She just needed a bit of rest. After all, she is Kara." James replied.

Kara attacked Floor One with hate. She did not consider leaving through the door: Too much of her wrath was left ungiven. Her energy inspired the rest of the group to plunge ever deeper into the East Complex's barracks.

The door to Floor B1 was locked, and the elevator required a key that the group did not have. Kara was just as happy to blow the door off its hinges. So they descended through smoking steel to the basement, housing none but the Director of the East Complex. The floor was furnished with all the amenities a Director could want. On one side was a full bar, on the other an enormous television. The hardest fall would land you comfortably on a luxurious carpet or couch or pillow, depending on where you stood. The most vicious of armies would pause their battle to admire fine paintings, gems, and decor. Time itself (at 0830 hours) would halt its ceaseless passing to enjoy vintage wines from the shelf. But not Kara.

Kara plowed the room in relentless search, showing plain disregard for the joys around. James begged to stay there with his new friends: Cuban cigars and bubbly champagne. "The floor has it's own power source. Think how many more baddies we'll see in here compared to the dark below." James said. But Kara would not stop. They descended to B2, the lowermost floor, supposed to be home for the complex's scientists.

B2 was unlike the other housing floors. They had all been built of wood and nails and heated by a thermostat. B2 was made of rock and concrete and was far too cold for comfort. Every edge was jagged and no corner was round. The hallways wound tightly, to the point that it was hazardous to walk as a single unit, as any dead would have to be climbed over and would not allow for a swift escape. So they split once more into groups of James and Kara, Matt and Harry, and Erik and Alex. Kara and James entered a stone room shivering.

"How long have we been here?" James wondered aloud. Kara looked for a clock on the wall but found none. _How do the scientists keep time?_ She thought. They left to check another room, and another, and another. It was tiresome work, and Kara's fiery energy from before was beginning to fade. B2 sapped James's strength as well; Kara noticed him propping himself against a wall or table whenever he got the chance.

Each room was messy, but easy to find was the same blue key in every room. Soon the sweep was complete, no hostility encountered, and Kara's unit met Harry's in the hallway. They waited for Erik and Alex to come out. And they kept waiting. And waiting.

Soon they were not waiting anymore, but sweeping the floor again for the missing buddies. Soon every room had been checked but one locked door. They pounded on it repeatedly, but no one emerged. Kara was forced to kick it in to check. "Alex! Erik! Are you here?" But there came no response.

"So... do we stop?" Matt asked. "We said we were going to stop if we lost anybody. This is the last floor. We should leave and report this to Group Director Samuel. Maybe we'll see Axel and Erik on the way up."

Kara was about to agree. It seemed like they were finished, and she'd be glad to get out of this complex and go back to her own. But then she heard James's voice from far away.

"It's not the last floor." He said. They all walked to his voice, and saw him staring down a dark stairwell that had been covered by a false wall. He'd gotten the door open with a key from one of the rooms.

"We aren't going down there. By no means will we descend to an unrecorded floor." Matt assured himself.

"This wasn't one of the elevator buttons, guys. We can go, but we don't know what's down there. It could be anything." Harry said. He didn't seem afraid, but he wanted to got home just as much as the rest of them. What would Kara say?

Kara wouldn't let them go home, James knew. She had something to prove to herself.

Kara lit the darkness with a flashlight and started down. "Goddammit." Muttered Matt. "Stupid bitch."

There was no question over what B3 was once the group had seen it. It was a prison, plain and simple, and a bad prison at that. The entire floor was filthy. Rancid grime had accumulated in every corner, rats were dead on open floor, and cobwebs hung undisturbed from the ceiling. Many cells had shit smeared on the walls. Sometimes the shit was mixed with blood.

"I wonder why the scientists all have keys to this place." Matt asked. The question answered itself.

Unlike most of the rooms the group had swept, it was immediately apparent that they were not alone in this one. Almost every cell held a convict who was either dead or dying. From one cell came the rattling of a frostbitten hand against bars, from another came a hacking cough. Moans emanated from a few. A few of the cells were empty, but every cell was closed. Except for one.

Kara looked into the open cell. It had been recently used, she could tell from the stink in the toilet. Yet there was nobody there. She walked in, checking both bunks for prisoners. They were both used, but both empty. She was about to leave when she heard the door close behind her.

"I haven't seen a girl as pretty as you since I worked for the Agency." Rasped a man just inside the door. "I think we should spend some time together."

Before he could touch her, she spun around and fired a bullet into his stomach. Red dripped from his mouth onto bloody chapped lips and a wiry brown beard. "That would have hurt a few hours ago." Said the man, spittle and blood spraying onto Kara's face. She backed away from him until she tripped and splashed back into the clogged toilet. "But whatever smoke fucked up those scientists is making me feel very, very good."

He took an exaggerated breath of smokey air just as Kara shot him two more times in the chest. He stumbled back at first, but then lurched towards her and grabbed her by the shirt. She heard her name being called and a key being jammed into the door as the prisoner lifted her from the toilet to his scarred face. "You're going to taste very good." He said, using a fistful of her hair to expose tender throat.

But before he could do what he planned, Kara stuck her combat knife through one of his eyes. She twisted until he released, then took him to the ground and bashed his head against the floor. She only stopped when she was sure he was dead, and she was sure he was dead when his blood and brain were leaking onto the stone beneath.

Harry tried to calm her shaking. He thought he did, after a minute, but it wasn't him. Harry didn't calm her down. Kara did. And maybe James, a bit. She quickly stepped out of her shit-stained combat pants; she still had clean sweatpants on underneath. And she wasn't done.

James was watching them, and Matt had given up all pretense of sweeping, already running off, trying to find the way out through a maze of cells. "Hey, Kara?" James said. "Were there supposed to be two prisoners in that cell?"

Then they heard Matt scream. Click-click, bang! Click-click, bang! Click-click, bang! Was the sound of Matt's shotgun. The group rushed around the corner to see blood pouring from a prisoner's wounds to Matt's body. "Why won't you die?" Matt sobbed as it squeezed his throat. He finally put the prisoner down with a point blank shot to the head, but more hostile forces were spilling in from all sides. This is what Kara had been prepared for.

"Matt! Come here!" She ordered, but Matt's ankle was grabbed by an approaching... scientist. Kara shot it five times before it died, and ordered Harry to help Matt as Kara lay down suppressing fire. "James! Make sure there's a clear path to the stairs!"

"On it, chief." He said, skipping left toward the stairwell. Kara stayed precise with her rounds while Harry rushed to Matt's defense. But she was forced to divert her fire when four researchers attacked from the right. Kara threw an impact grenade in their direction, knocking them to the ground in a wave of fire and fragments. Two were dead and one was missing an arm, but both living scientists charged her even while engulfed in flames. Kara put down the intact one with the remainder of her clip, but she barely dodged being tackled by the last one while reloading. The scientist rolled and got to its feet. Kara beat it back down with her pistol then slashed its throat.

Kara found that she was no longer within sight of Harry or Matt, and try as she might to find them, she could not locate or offer them fire. Kara retreated to the security of the stairs. James had already left a pile of bodies and corresponding pile of magazines on the floor. While he reloaded his assault rifle, she drew her own. They slew twenty deranged men before Harry arrived. "Where's Matt?" Kara asked through heavy, frosty breath.

Harry shook his head. "Go, just go." And they ran up the stairs. It was a relief to face the quiet halls of B2, at least for Harry, who knew he was a mere two floors, lobby, and stretch of land away from safety. This is why he was appalled when Kara began to open the door to a room, almost as if she was still... Good god. She was about to sweep.

"Kara!" Harry shouted. "What the fuck are you doing?"

She turned around with surprise. Yes, surprise. "I... just checking to see if the floor was clear, supposed to sweep..."

"Fuck that!" Harry said. "Matt is dead. Erik and Alex are gone. We are leaving _now."_

Kara closed the door slowly. She supposed he was right. The building had been swept, and the only force left to contend with was an overwhelming one that would eventually die in the B3 prison. They could leave right away. "Okay." She said. She supposed that she hadn't expected it to end this way. And she still wasn't sure that it would.

And when the three of them rounded the corner, her doubts were confirmed. Erik was hanging from low ceiling by a bed sheet noose, so low that his toes grazed the floor. A chilled pool of blood stagnated below him. His mask was off, and the blood kept dripping from the tips of his fingers and the toes of his shoes, the corners of his mouth and the edges of his iced-over eyes. Also from a huge slice across his belly through which his intestines dangled.

"I do think we should leave." Said Harry. "I really think so. I really think we have to go."

"Yes." Said Alex, standing behind them all with a knife and flaming black eyes. "I think you should go, too."

James raised his gun, but it and a finger were cut from his hand. Alex shoved him headfirst into the wall and kept forward. Harry slipped past the hanging body and sprinted away. Kara tried to do the same, but a pool of blood stopped her path with a splash. Alex tore off her mask, took her chin in his hand, and slipped the frigid metal of the knife blade through her lips, face devoid of emotion. Kara had never believed in evil, but now she seemed to be staring it in the face.

Luckily, James moved Alex's brain from skull to wall before Kara was hurt. "Are you okay?" He asked her.

"She's not okay." Said the dead man. "None of you will leave here okay. The only way out is down, but down is always death. Do you hear them? Do you hear what they say? They say that reality stops being so real below B2. Are you sure you are where you think you are?"

James shot the dead man again to stop his talking. "Enjoy that little existential crisis." He muttered as he helped Kara to her feet.

"Dammit." She said, blinking tears from her eyes. Her hand went to the back of her pants. Now even her backups were soaked.

"Hey, it'll be alright. Listen. Hey, listen to me. Wipe those tears. Put your mask back on. We're going to be fine. We'll get up, now, come on. We'll get up and we'll go upstairs to B1. Then we'll go to Floor One. Then we'll walk out of here and leave, alright? Can we do that, Kara?"

Kara nodded. James put a hand over her eyes as he pushed her past Erik, then discreetly took Erik's and Alex's filter packets. He slipped a filter under his cracked mask and breathed through it. He had enough for nine days. But he feared that it wouldn't be enough.

James followed her up the hallway, lending her little bits of encouragement as they went. She was being strong and they were moving steadily forward until James had to stop behind her at the B1 stairwell door. Kara was shaking again.

"Come on, Kara, we can do this, remember? We're going to go to B1, then the dining room, then we leave. Come on, Kara, trust in me."

Kara shook her head. "No." She whispered. "This isn't B1."

James slid beside her and pressed his ear to the door. As clear as a frozen night came the sound of rushing water.

James opened the door as slowly as he could, trying his hardest to avoid making a creak. It didn't matter, though, because nobody could hear a creak over the sound of the shower water running over the silhouette in the middle of the community bathroom.

The last time Kara had seen Axel, the red haired friend of Matt's had been very still and very quiet. This time Axel moved erratically, having acquired a constant shake, and the smallest flicking of the lights saw him in a new position. Harry lay dead at his feet. This time there was no question as to whether or not Axel had seen them. Axel began striding toward them with unearthly bounds, so James emptied a fast clip on him and slammed the door, jamming it shut with his rifle. The banging came quickly and hard. It seemed to Kara as though Axel would break through the wood at any second. James didn't wait for that. He took Kara by the hand and ran with her down the hallway once more, opening back up the hidden door to Floor B3.

"Don't worry, Kara, keep your head up, we're on our way out." James said. James saw everything, and he'd seen something useful in the dark of the prison.

James entered B3 with guns ablaze. Any threat from any direction was left bleeding and stunned from the attack. His hail of bullets was followed by a flash bang and smoke grenade, allowing Kara and James to run unbothered to their destination.

When James got to the metal grate, he wasted no time laying a mine and detonating it in mid-run. James pushed Kara down the ladder and followed her down, igniting a war-torch and placing it beneath the passage to ward off pursuit. Only when James had taken Kara to the end of the sewer did they slow their pace.

"Are we good?" James asked. Kara nodded. "Good. Now, I want you to know something before we continue, alright? We shouldn't be down just because of a shitty situation." He said, motioning to mounds of human waste.

Kara laughed. Maybe it was because James was funny, or maybe it was because he was no less of a clown after hours of brushing death. She laughed either way.

James took a small utility saw and began cutting through the bars that trapped them in the sewer. Past them was a large cavern that was host to visible plant life. Somewhere, that cavern was connected to open air. They had a way out.

First, though, they would have to deal with the splashing steps behind them. A scientist strode towards them with a needle in one hand and a scalpel in the other. Its eyes were flaming black, just like Alex's had been. In fact, everyone who'd attacked them had a varying degree of black about their eyes. James suspected this had to do with levels of exposure to the smoke.

Kara trained her rifle on the scientist, prepared to take it down in one high caliber shot to the brain. James quickly lowered her gun. "You don't want any fire down here. Sewer air is flammable."

Kara nodded and drew her combat knife instead. It had served her well over the past hours, and it was no wonder why. At about 13 inches, forged into an expert shape, it was the sharpest and deadliest blade she'd ever held. Kara was just as confident with it as she would be with some gun or other.

Kara didn't have to kill the scientist. The work was done for them by a dirty, tired Matt. He beheaded the smoke-addled man in a fell swipe.

"Matt! You're alive!" Kara exclaimed.

"And your mask is shattered." James observed. James briefly removed his own to demonstrate how he breathed directly through the filter. Matt quickly followed suit.

"You don't need to saw through that grill." Said Matt. "There's another way to the caverns. Follow me." They did.

Matt went into a coughing fit as they walked. "It's strange," said Kara, "that the smoke would be a problem even down here. Did the fire really spread down to the sewers?"

It was a good question. "I don't think it needed to." Said James. "Nor did the fire spread from building to building on its own volition. Each one was a great distance from the rest and separated by nothing flammable. Someone lit each building, and the same person poisoned each part of them. Even down to the sewers. It's also clear why so many are gone instead of dead. The smoke doesn't kill you. It only damages you somehow. It damaged those scientists. It damaged Axel. I imagine it damaged everyone else as well."

"I wonder how the rest of the squadron is doing." Said Kara.

Matt seemed to have a burst of insight. "They can't be much better. If the Sheriff sent us here to eradicate the occupants and send a message, his enemy wants to eradicate us and send the message right back. This is all a game of power played out with lives."

Their walk led them to a tunnel where the air was much cleaner. Matt pointed out a staircase climbing one of the walls and told them that the stairs led to a door easy enough to find at the back of B3.

"I'd like to apologize for leaving you in B3. Also for shooting Axel." Said Kara later, relieving a pain in her chest.

Matt did not accept her apology. "I don't accept because you have nothing to apologize for. After having my neck gnawed on by one of those things, I gained a better understanding of them. And my understanding is that the Axel you killed probably wasn't Axel anymore. I understand that fleeing from B3 wasn't a choice, it was a necessity. I only have to wonder why you came back down."

Kara answered succinctly. "The only way out was down." She paused. "But that leads to a bigger question. How do we get out of here?"

James was tempted to say, "We don't." But that wouldn't be helpful.

Ah, fuck it. Kara had enough self control for all of them. "We don't." He said with a grin. He could instantly sense that his squadmates were appalled. "Although, if we were really determined to survive, we could get out the same way that crate planned to." He referred to the massive crate sitting on a truck in the middle of the cavern. Curious as he was, James couldn't help but bound over and open it up. He pulled out two bricks of heroin and whistled.

"One little piggy is going to be safe and snug inside of this house." James said. Of course, his two downers of squadmates missed the pun. James hopped in the truck door and turned a scientist key in the ignition. The roaring engine sounded like freedom.

"Hey!" Shouted Kara. "Someone could have heard that." Sure enough, a new group of hostiles appeared before them.

"That someone's going to get run the fuck over." James replied. "Who wants shotgun?"


	5. The Fire

**A/N: Apologies for the extended wait; school and work are life-draining. Regular posts are now scheduled for Fridays. Keep spreading the word to every human you encounter.**

"Things seem different, now." He said, sharpening a razor thin edge even thinner. "I, of course, haven't changed. No, me? I'm the same. But the world around seems to be... I don't know. Altered."

His victim screamed glass through a burlap gag.

"I know, I'll give you an example. At my old apartment, there were always things like rats, on-and-off power, pill-bottley floors, and other stuff of a dingy nature. Now, look where I am! This is the penthouse room of that rich hotel I wouldn't have been fit to crawl near before! And, I tell you, that's not the only thing that's changed."

Now he was crying through the gag, making a muffled noise that revealed a dire lack of oxygen.

"For one thing, I've got you. I never used to have company at my old apartment. But I'm ever thankful that God saw fit to bless me with such an extensive circle of friends and acquaintances."

Breathing had become easier since his panic had subsided into a more keeled-over sort of state that left hair and tears messy on the hardwood.

"I guess you're more in the circle of acquaintances than anything else. Yes, I understand that we might not be on the best terms, and due to the situation, you may even harbor some bad feelings towards me, but I never had anyone at all back at my apartment! Tied up or no, I suffered a major deficit of guests."

He cradled himself unthinkingly into fetal position, eyes blank and empty. Was he truly going to die this way?

"That's the difference between thinking positive and negative, after all. I could point out that you're an undesirable sort of guest, being such a criminal and a wrongdoer and opposed to the cause and unwillingly present; but it's more positive to step back and see that I have a guest in my home."

He hesitated to even consider the abhorrent thought that his mind conceived. It stopped his breath for a moment, so in opposition to himself the thought was. His soul, his id, the essence of his being, all his beliefs up to this point told him to be repelled.

"And when you examine it from a positive eye, it's clear that my situation now is far superior to how it was before. I can really feel the difference, you know, that's why I say that it isn't just me who's changed. I can feel a change coming on in all of Nevada, my guest. Maybe in all of the world. I'm a part of of it - and a big one, at that. I suppose that makes you part of it by association."

He steadied his breathing once again, steeling himself against the repulsion, the single abhorrent thought deciding his mind: _Fighting any longer may be death._ So he beat past the indignant barrier shouting that it was evil, that it was worse than death, and his will to survive pushed him through to what the barrier deemed the darkest corners of immorality. Trembling in apprehension, faltering in his step like a soul lost and forgone, he reached out to IT in his mind, silently begging for forgiveness.He repented for fighting ITS will. He swore that he would obey, promised that he had been wrong. And he waited for an answer.

"That's enough small talk, I think. How long has the gas been on? Ten minutes? Yeah, I think this is good enough. Well," Tricky said, opening a window and stepping onto the sill. "Time for me to go. I had a great time talking to you, I hope you know. I really just simply never get to meet people! I'm sure I'll see you soon, anyhow: The Auditor teaches through penance, but to IT, grudges are foreign. Well, good luck, my guest. Your next hours will demand it." A match sizzled to life in Tricky's hand.

"Wait!" The man tried to scream, but it came through the gag sounding the same as everything else. He released a final, frantic shout to the only hope he had left. _Auditor! _His mind formed as taut lips poured desperation through the gag. _Save me!_

Tricky the Clown dropped twelve stories and landed standing, breaking the ground instead of himself, fiery rubble raining into the crater he'd created. He walked unabashedly through fire towards his next objective. Men and women around him may have ducked or run in the face of the Inferno's weather, just as the man Tricky had abducted to a hotel room had panicked in the face of death, calling ineffectually for a savior. But Tricky had no fear of the burning hail, no fear of being unprotected by his savior, because he had long ago accepted his guide.

Flaming brick shied nervously from his person as it fell.

The unawakened crowd parted as he strode the center of the sidewalk.

Two trucks collided when a whim drove him to traverse the street.

For nothing could harm Tricky, and nothing could to him stand in impediment. This reality left little challenge in Tricky's work - the reward, visceral satisfaction, being a motivator plenty sufficient over mental stimulation. So he waited near an Agency warehouse (North Complex, notorious for experimental weaponry) and followed instructions to commandeer a departing truck. He drove it to a garage and parked it in Spot 7.

After that, he had some mysterious correspondence to carry out in code words. He bought a disposable phone and used the number and time he'd been given to call someone whose name he didn't know.

"Your colleagues must hate him." Said Tricky. "Funding must be cut. It is only then that you'll be able to displace him. I hear the job has great benefits." Tricky didn't know who his colleagues were, or even what the job was, nor of its benefits. But ITS voice came through Tricky's mouth so that he didn't have to speak.

"Don't worry about that, I'm a funny guy, I've got ideas for that, man. Won't be a problem." Said the person on the other end. It was unclear whether the voice was male or female: It had been applied to a modifier.

The voice inside of Tricky continued. "Correct. Now..."

The voice on the other end interrupted. "Really, the guy's easy enough to hate, man. He's the kind to stay distant and hang up without saying goodbye. He never tried to be my friend, man, I won't be his."

Tricky felt rage boil inside him, but not from himself - its source was the same as the voice that came from his mouth. IT was about to speak a harsh "SILENCE," but Tricky quelled the words. "That's good." Tricky said. "Beyond attacking his reputation, though, I'll need you to destroy his command. However you want to do this is up to you - I'll rely on your ingenuity. You'll need it, after all, after you have his position." Tricky's voice was smooth and dark. A perfect imitation of The Auditor. So much so that The Auditor complained inside him, upset that Tricky had taken an unplanned course. Tricky snuffed The Auditor's invective so that he could focus on the other end.

"I sure will, man. Thanks for this. I know I'm not supposed to ask your motives, man, but..."

Tricky cut him off. "You're correct. My motives are my own. Now: Begin." The conversation terminated only after both had said goodbye. Tricky wouldn't make the fatal mistake that the target had made.

The Auditor hissed evil words at Tricky when he allowed IT back. A shattered television showed him two dead realtors.

_You were spared from imperfection_

Somewhere, a girl in a black dress began to cry.

_And yet you dare to resist_

Tricky accepted his punishment. It was deafening, and it left him in a feeble heap. He decided, decided, decided to apologize until IT relented. In reward, Tricky woke up to his new friend, face burnt and melted until it lacked any feature.

"Hello, acquaintance." Tricky said quietly. "Do you see, yet? How things are changing?"

His friend did not respond. No mouth, after all.

The two of them entered a carrier's headquarters and coerced control of their telecommunications. It was easy enough to retrieve a few passwords and administer one device. For good measure, they leadened the facility to ensure that their work would not be undone.

Tricky noted with alien satisfaction that he and his acquaintance had perfect aim. Tricky fired through the throats of two men at once, broke every kneecap needed to make the humans kneel, and cut arteries so that they'd die on their knees. Die in service of Tricky. Or, The Auditor. Right. The Auditor.

_He begins to think that he is the source of his perfection. _The Auditor thought. _Penance is ineffective. Perhaps human control will be sufficient. Amusing, of course, that he is just now creating his own master._

In ten days, Tricky would send a simple message from the phone they'd possessed: "Wait at my house. Key is under the doormat."

Aside from this, he had little else to do. The Auditor, gracious as IT was, had granted him and his acquaintance long days of free time. Tricky took his acquaintance for hot dogs. Most at the stand were wary of his strange appearance, green hair and white face, but a few had in mind a radio description of green hair and semen samples. Those few fled the stand to dial police. The police, however, had already been rendered temporarily ineffective due to the efforts of an anonymous officer who had cut police funding and then complained about it.

Tricky was unaware of any of this. He and his acquaintance sat on a bench with their hot dogs. One of them lacked an orifice to eat with, though, so he merely held his. Tricky tried to remember what hot dogs had tasted like before he was made perfect - his imperfections, the green hair and the white makeup, helped with that. "Acquaintance?" He asked. "Now that we've done things together, and gone for hot dogs, and known each other for a little while... do you suppose that we'd be friends, now?"

Tricky was hoping that his acquaintance would nod his head, but the man with the burnt face instead crushed his food in a shaking hand.

"I didn't think so." Tricky sighed. "I'm sorry anyways. I'm sorry for the fire. I know... I knew... I knew you didn't want to be burned. I knew that you were happier before."

His acquaintance remained silent.

Carefully, more carefully than ever before, Tricky hid his words from The Auditor, so that IT wouldn't know that Tricky was hiding them at all. IT would just think that Tricky was being quiet. "I think we might be trapped now." He whispered. "In a way, I was burned just like you. Only, I chose to be burned. I could have kept taking my pills, and they wouldn't have kept me imperfect forever, but I could have tried for a while, anyways. Yes, I would have done bad things if I had taken them. I would have hurt that girl, and I wouldn't have saved her. But now I can't choose. If I hurt a girl now, I wouldn't even know that it was bad. Of course it is, but I wouldn't know it. Wait..." For a moment, the thought occurred to Tricky that if he knew it was bad now, then he would know it was bad while he was doing it, and he could stop himself. But then he forgot that he had thought that thought, and he forgot what he had been telling his acquaintance, and his acquaintance forgot that he had heard it.

_He almost hid his words._ Thought The Auditor with great apprehension. _Not quite well enough, but he was close. He _will_ get better at fighting me. What will happen if he has my power, but he's not under my control?_ IT asked ITSELF. The Auditor didn't know the answer. _If another human can't reign him in, he'll need to be killed. So be it._

_**SO BE IT.**_


	6. The Traitor

So, funding had been cut. And a weapons shipment had left North but never arrived at Base. And East Complex had swallowed 36 soldiers and forgotten to spit them back out.

There was, at this point, no question over whether these actions were connected. Flashy scare tactics had perfectly aligned to take his best fighting force, then their best weapons, then Sheriff Jay's best personal backup. Of course, the police weren't yet refusing to go on duty, but the Sheriff knew that if he forced them to work without pay, he'd soon lose them entirely. The station had instead turned into a playpen for them to gamble and Sheriff Jay to struggle desperately at restoring their salaries.

Even so, his officers were already turning on him. As it was, Sheriff Jay had stopped being the hand that fed the instant that Deputy Thomas, the bastard, had complained that his paycheck had failed to arrive. _No, _thought the Sheriff, _it wouldn't do to blame Tommygun. Blame whatever state accountant messed up our budget._ The Sheriff laughed at the thought of Deputy Thomas orchestrating any kind of plot. Tommy was a sensitive jokester that at least seemed loyal.

Sheriff Jay got off the phone frustrated. State accountants had been oblivious and unhelpful. He heard a bout of laughter through his office door. The murmured words sounded pleasant at the time, if only because the Sheriff felt lonely and didn't know their content. He leaned in to hear.

"...because _that's_ how you really get the job done. Hey, who wants to jump into a burning deathtrap for a key of Jay's..."

Whoever had been talking ceased as soon as the Sheriff stepped out of his office. They were all working diligently, radiating unspoken words and forcefully contained laughter. The Sheriff's eyes swept the room. Deputy Thomas wore a snakish smile - that was just Tommygun for you. The rest looked somber.

"I called accounting." Sheriff Jay said, scrutinizing the face of each officer. "It was a simple mistake. Funding will be returned by tomorrow."

One among them visibly flinched, but had returned to normal when Sheriff Jay sent a glance in their direction. It had come either from Deputy Thomas or an officer gripping her mug with white knuckles, one hand hiding her laughter. She'd need to be interrogated.

After all, Sheriff Jay did not care if his funding was cut. The Nevadan police force was barely effective in any case, and rarely needed. But Sheriff Jay would not tolerate dissidence under any circumstance.

"Officer, would you join me?" Sheriff Jay asked the white knuckled woman. He directed her into his office and shut the blinds. No one would know what had been said in this room.

"Please, take a seat." He advised. She did. "What do you think about the funding situation?" The Sheriff asked bluntly.

The girl looked confused. "Sir?"

Sheriff Jay waited impassively for her to answer. When she didn't, "Should I ask again?"

"No, sir." She shook her head. "I'm just... I assumed everyone felt the same about the funding. What I mean to say is that it's a bad situation. But it sounds like you just got it resolved."

The Sheriff was much taller than her. He also looked stronger, and he sat in his chair as though he owned the room, because he did. He sat as though he owned her. He sat as though he were in charge, and those in charge didn't need to speak. He could leave her in silence, averting her eyes, for as long as he liked.

Sheriff Jay used this luxury. By the time he spoke again, her knuckles were white for a different reason.

"What do you know about the funding, officer?"

It was just a whisper, but the tone was so deadly that water welled in her eyes. She shook her head quickly, unable to articulate a response.

"Did you do this?" The Sheriff asked.

"I'm sorry." She said. "We were talking about you, that's all, I'm sorry, we'll get to work, I know you're disappointed, please, I'm sorry, I wasn't doing anything, I thought it was funny, but we shouldn't have..."

The Sheriff silenced her with a bored hand. "Tell the officers to get out. Use those words."

She stood up with a hunch, grateful to be excused. "Yes, sir, I'm sorry, it was Deputy Thomas, and Jake, and, and..."

"Go."

She did, leaving Sheriff Jay to contemplate her impressive facade. With all her display of emotion, she was a likely perpetrator. _She cut funding and laughed about it._ And when he lied that he'd regained funding, she had likely been the one who flinched.

He'd make an example of her. That's what he thought as the building was emptied, leaving on no lights but the one in his office. He stared at his police radio on the table and toyed with thoughts of the East Complex while he plotted against that officer.

Those thoughts all were dispersed by the quiet crackle of static. A voice reached his ears just too softly to be discerned. He picked up the radio and held it near, listening for the distinct vocal noise he'd heard a moment before. "Hello?" He spoke into the receiver. "This is Sheriff Jay, who's communicating?"

He paid intent mind, searching the rolling static for that elusive hint of speech. He was listening too closely to notice that the radio was not tuned to any channel at all. Then he found it again, a clear note in the distorted jungle of noise.

Sheriff Jay's left ear rang. He was laying on the floor, clutching his head, a bit of blood coming away on his earlobe. The radio had returned to an ordinary volume, but the words were gone. He listened a bit more cautiously now, worried that the amplitude would spike once more. The static was still there, but the voice had leveled again to an incomprehensible murmur.

But it sounded desperate.

The voice tried again, finally reaching a volume not too loud and not too soft. "SOS, Sheriff Jay, this is the East Complex, please respond. I repeat, this is the East Complex, we are in distress, please respond. Over."

"Who is this? Over." Asked the Sheriff.

"This is..." The volume spiked again, then returned. "This is Unit Kara Harding of Squadron A, North Complex. We were sent to eradicate the hostiles in East Complex. We are trapped underground and require explosive... and medical... assistance. Over."

"Who's with you? Over." Asked Sheriff Jay.

"My group consisted of myself, Units Harry, James, Matt, and... two others... Units Erik and Alex. Only I and Unit James are left. James is in critical condition."

This was news. Sheriff Jay asked the first questions that came to him, stupid as they were. "How can you communicate? How did you find this frequency? Over."

There was silence at the other end.

"Unit Kara? Are you there? Over."

"You're not on a frequency, Sheriff Jay." Said the radio hesitantly. "I can feel... I think your radio is off."

Sheriff Jay checked.

"How are we talking, Kara?" He omitted the 'over'. There was no need.

The radio's speech became faster. "We had to survive." It whispered. "We didn't have anything to drink, we were hungry, the filters were almost gone. James... James had to take Matt's. And then, we were so thirsty, he, said there was one thing we could do."

Sheriff Jay was weighing the dangers against the benefits of sending reinforcements. On the one hand, having lost all East Complex soldiers and Squadron A of North Complex, The Agency would suffer drastically from a failed investment in retrieving these troops. On the other, if many soldiers could be easily returned from the East Complex, The Agency's best force would be regained.

Sheriff Jay decided to hedge his bets. He'd send a small group of soldiers under Unit Kara's guidance. And for the leader of the group...

"Kara, can you communicate to any radio, or is it just mine?" He asked. He was particularly sentimental towards this radio, and he'd rather not send it on his treacherous officer's suicide mission.

"I don't know." Came her meek answer.

"Try it now. Call in to the Nevada Police Radio and file some report - there's no one listening around this time. Frequency 111.01."

Sheriff Jay turned on his radio, already tuned to the proper channel, and listened for the girl's wavering voice. It worked.

By the time Kara had reestablished her special connection with Sheriff Jay's radio, he'd already orchestrated all the finer points of his extraction plan. "Tell me, Kara," Sheriff Jay began after he'd detailed the process of her extraction. "How did you acquire this communication ability? Any other powers come along with it?"

"I..." Kara was interrupted by a loud burst of static. There were gunshots from the other line. "James!" Came her distant screech, feet away from a radio dropped on the ground. "Come on, please, we can't fight them! James, come!"

Sheriff Jay listened, interest piqued. Maybe an extraction would not be so fruitful.

"Fffffuck that." Said a male voice. "Fffffuck their guns. I'll kill... I'll kill 'em with my _goddamn hands."_

"James!" Kara screamed. More gunshots. The loud crack of bone. Some laughter. The radio was picked back up, and Sheriff Jay could tell by the echoing footsteps that Kara was running down an underground tunnel. Yes, The Sheriff knew just where she was.

It occurred to him to ask if Kara could retrieve the shipment, but attempting such might have been overconfident at that time. "Get to safety, Kara, and remember to contact the frequency I gave you at 0800 hours tomorrow. I know there aren't any clocks down there, so we'll broadcast the time on that channel. Good luck." Said the Sheriff.

"Bring medicine." She said with a choke. He could tell she was crying. "Bring a medic. Bring everything you have."

The Sheriff nodded inaudibly, pocketed the radio, and donned his winter jacket. The nights were getting cold in Nevada.

Sheriff Jay drove home to an unexpected sight. Lights were on in his house, casting warmth against chilled air. He took his Colt into his hand and unlocked the door. Along with steaming warm air flooded out the scent of apple pie and cinnamon. He shut the door quietly behind him, as he didn't want to be noticed. But, entering the foyer, he'd already attracted attention.

Ellie never was shy. A slender arm lazily beckoned the Sheriff from the sofa, and he followed it, holstering his revolver. "How'd you get in here, pretty girl?"

She flicked him a little key. It was from under his welcome mat. He tossed it onto the coffee table and reclined in the soft chair beside her. It offered him a nice view of her shapely form, one leg stretched on the couch, one knee propped up on the cushion, one hand resting on the floor, the other across her bare breasts. Sheriff Jay's eyes were drawn between her legs.

"I didn't know you cooked." He said, breathing in the scent of the kitchen. She closed her eyes, and he watched the rise and fall of her chest. "You know I don't want us meeting at my house. You should've gone to that apartment."

"I only go where you tell me, Sheriff Jay." She said. She slunk off of the sofa and stood, stretched, went to the kitchen at the sound of a timer. Sheriff Jay heard a pie taken from the oven and set to cool on a rack. When Ellie returned, she straddled the Sheriff's lap, legs dangling over the arms of the chair. "Tell me where to go."

He tried to kiss her, but the escort only teased his lips with a light touch and pushed him firmly against the chair's back. She put his hands where she wanted them and cupped his cheek, proceeding with a sarcastic facade of conversation. "How was work today, Sheriff Jay?" She asked.

He vented funding cuts and burning complexes, then stopped himself at the second one. Sheriff Jay didn't trust Ellie, and it wouldn't do to tell her too much. Although, she probably didn't care enough to remember it after.

She prodded him to continue, asking about the East Complex. He told about a carjacker and an overarching plan to disable his forces, and even about the message he'd send when he put a dissident officer into a building that had released no man who'd entered.

"Why don't you bargain with this mysterious carjacker? Wouldn't that be less wasteful than throwing more resources at him?" She asked.

The Sheriff was caught off guard. Ellie never had opinions and she never made suggestions. This seemed wrong.

"I'd rather win than concede." Was his only answer. Sheriff Jay smiled, expecting to receive the eye-roll that Ellie always gave in place of a laugh. But she surprised him again.

"But it might be a choice between concession and loss. Then, would you rather lose?" She asked.

The Sheriff's ire was beginning to spark, and embers of suspicion had turned to rolling flames. "Why do you care, Ellie? Why did you -" Ellie interrupted him with a kiss, and he forgot what he'd been about to say.

"Oh, Sheriff Jay, I don't care about your guns and games." She said, running her hands down his neck, his chest, his pelvis, his crotch. "They aren't the games I like to play."

His suspicion had been quelled, and he let her take him to his room, where he stumbled on her pink purse before tumbling into bed. She got on top, because she was a top kind of girl. After they finished, she lulled him back into conversation, mocking Sheriff Jay's enemies as being so far beneath him that they were hardly worth fighting. He agreed huskily, and they went again. After a few hours she'd brought him to the brink of exhaustion, but she was as strong as ever.

"Do me a favor, Jay." She said, lips in a pout. That was odd. She'd never called him that before. "I need to be truthful with you. Things are getting a bit rough at work. Flow isn't so nice as he was when I met him, and... well, things are getting rough. I'm tired of Daddy Flow, and I'm tired of my work. You're the only client I enjoy anymore, and... to be honest... I've developed some feelings for you, Jay." Her voice trailed off, and she looked away from his eyes. "And the favor I want to ask is that you not get hurt."

The Sheriff was not certain about the implications of her statement, but if she thought she'd be leaving Daddy Flow for him, she was... well, maybe she wasn't mistaken. Sheriff Jay had never considered her to be more than what she was, but in all likelihood, being an escort was just the surface of her persona. Sheriff Jay'd never gotten to know someone like her before, and spending more time with her became an intriguing fantasy for a moment. He wondered what she was really like. He wondered if underneath the escort she was the same as other women that he detested. He wondered if she was truly as unique as she seemed now. "How do I not get hurt?" He asked her softly.

"Well, Jay, I think I want to be with you, but..." She wiped away a tear. "I can't stand to lose someone else. I can't take any more heartbreak. I don't want you to fight so hard. I don't want you to get people mad."

The Sheriff had never seen this side of Ellie before. It was especially exciting to see that after she'd showed her feelings, she was perfectly capable of reigning them back in. She now wore the same face that she always did, only wet from a tear.

Wait. What did this request really mean? She didn't want him to get anyone mad? Who was she talking about?

He remembered her earlier suggestion, and a knife wrenched in his gut. "Why did you come here, Ellie?" He asked, ice plain in his voice.

"You told me to." She said.

He stood from the bed and buckled his pants. "I don't know what interest you have in this matter, but you'd better take your clothes and get out of here. Now." He didn't hear her move. "Do you hear me? I told you to leave _now."_

She shifted. "Fine." She said. "But what about my payment?"

"I didn't ask you to come here, girl, you aren't getting a penny." Sheriff Jay heard a distinct texting sound followed by the note of a sent message.

"I just told Daddy Flow where I am. And I'm not leaving until you pay me. 150 is the standard rate." She spat. Sheriff Jay wasn't afraid of Daddy Flow. Daddy Flow was outnumbered and hopelessly outgunned in the face of the Sheriff.

The Sheriff turned and smacked her in the face, knocking her to the sheets. She gave a small whimper and began visibly trembling. He had hurt her. He was struck with an immediate desire to give her consolation, but instead put venom in his voice when he told her, "Stay as long as you like. You aren't getting shit from me."

The Sheriff needed a drink. He was on his way to the living room when he heard a rustling behind him, then the click of a hammer. He turned to see Ellie, still naked, pulling a long pistol from her pink bag. He couldn't see her face under a curtain of silky hair. It was at this moment that Sheriff Jay recognized the experimental Sub-Laboratory weaponry that his escort was holding, and realized that his anger had been horribly misdirected.

When she raised her head, her tears were dry and her eyes were black.

"You're an intelligent man, Sheriff Jay. I learned long ago that I need intelligent men, and that I can't keep them intelligent and force them into service at the same time. So you're going to make a deal with me, whether you know it or not. You may as well hear my conditions before you escalate our conflict." Ellie said in a voice that wasn't her own.

_They think they can manipulate me through her, because they don't think I'd harm her._ Thought the Sheriff. _Maybe this will send a message._

"I'd have you shoot me before I made any deal with you." He said. He grabbed her forearm and gun and pulled the barrel against his stomach, jerking her off balance. "Go ahead." He said when she'd steadied herself. "Shoot me."

The Sheriff was not expecting her to shoot him. He soon learned of the wonders of Agency technology, though, when the bullet exited his back and ended up under a few feet of dirt in his backyard. However, he did not clutch in pain at his stomach. He pulled his revolver and shot her wrist in one motion. Blood poured from a severed artery, spilling over her experimental weapon.

She kicked his bullet wound and he crashed through the door, falling onto the living room carpet. She straddled him again, but this time to pin him down, and wrapped her hands again around his neck, but this time to choke him.

"Give in to me. Now." She demanded. He grabbed a thick lock of her hair and yanked her head back, exposing the taut skin of her neck.

He nearly kissed it.

Instead, he threw her to the ground and stood. His gun hung loosely by his side as he watched her back away on all fours into the foyer. "Wait!" She begged, eyes returned to their ordinary color. "Please don't."

Her head painted the door behind her, and a few holes in her chest ensured her death. Sheriff Jay didn't know what conditions the black-eyed creature could survive.

The Sheriff allowed himself no remorse, and the girl no pity. An aggressor in one's own home ought to be dealt with violently, that's what his father would have said, the bastard. But wrong as he often was, his father would've been right then. The girl - or, whatever was manipulating her - had tried to coerce him into cooperation, extort his aid in whatever psychotic plan had killed the entire East Complex and any who entered.

And the Sheriff would not tolerate the former.

Slowly, wearily, the Sheriff walked to his room and retrieved Ellie's pink bag. It was filled with silly things: makeup, money, knives. The Sheriff pulled out her cell phone and took it back to the foyer. He read the last three messages.

_9:54pm to 'Flo' - Come. Afraid._

The Sheriff almost laughed. She was just as terse in text as she was in person.

_6:32pm to 'Flo' - At Sheriff Jay's house. Unusual. Be nearby._

Yes, it was unusual. Sheriff Jay would have to sever his connection with Daddy Flow due to the abnormality of the situation. So when he read her next text, received at 1730 hours, he dropped the phone to the floor, screen shattering on the hardwood. He pulled his own phone from his pocket and dreaded what he'd find.

_5:30pm to 'Ellie' - Wait at my house. Key is under the doormat._

No.

Sheriff Jay had not sent that.

What?

Sheriff Jay _had not sent that._

His phone had never left his person that day. He'd felt it in his pocket or seen it in his hand at all times. The Sheriff could only think that someone had accessed it remotely, but he was the only one who knew his passwords. Except, of course, for his carrier, which had direct access to its clients' messaging systems.

The clock struck ten, and there was a knock at Sheriff Jay's door. "I'm a bit busy." The Sheriff said. "Come back later."

"I think I'll come in now." The door said back. Sounded like a woman. "Flow wants to talk to you."

"Flow can talk to me later. Leave now." Demanded the Sheriff. There was silence for a moment, then Sheriff Jay's door came off its hinges and crashed on the floor. In the permanently open doorway stood a cordially dressed woman and what looked to be a gun-wielding bodybuilder.

The woman's jaw dropped when she saw Ellie.

The bodybuilder stood impassive, another Agency gun in hand.

"Whatever deal y'all made, y'all shouldn't'a made it." The Sheriff's accent came gruff when he was angry. It was the only indication of such: His face was as inscrutable as ever.

"Brutus." The woman said, and Brutus raised his gun. The woman was soon gaping at two fresh corpses.

"Why don't y'all run and tell your pimp what happened." Goaded the Sheriff. She took the offer with gratitude.

Sheriff Jay would take care of the bodies later. What he needed now was a stiff drink. He poured himself a fifth of Scotch, no ice, and took it with his apple pie. The first bite was crumbly and sweet, teaching him of a girl who cooked with too much sugar.

He let the radio drone while he drank, if only to keep away the quiet. But it reminded him of nights in his apartment, so he tried the television. But he saw women all over the screen, so he let the silence return. It was broken by a tone from his cell, then three more in rapid fire.

_10:02 from 'D.F.' - you broke my property_

_10:02 from 'D.F.' - you're a dead man, sheriff_

_10:02 from 'D.F.' - i'm coming for you soon_

_10:03 from 'D.F.' - expect me_

Sheriff Jay began to consider the implications of Ellie and Brutus's weapons. It dawned on him that the missing shipment of weapons had correlated directly with Ellie's newfound firepower. The Sheriff started to wonder not only if Daddy Flow had taken Jay's shipment, but if he was also behind the recent funding cut in his department. And maybe even the disaster at the East Complex.

But, why do whatever Daddy Flow had done to the escort? Why knowingly send her to die, then upset himself over it? Was the pimp merely looking for a reason to fight? Of course, the girl had tried to convince him to cooperate with whoever was causing all of these problems. Maybe she was truly intended to be successful.

Further confusing would be the sudden interest in dominance that Daddy Flow would have shown. For years, the pimp was a good companion to all of his clients, and his primary client was a large benefactor of his operation, so why turn to fire and theft? Nor did the Sheriff understand what the girl had said about 'needing intelligent men'. This seemed to be an assault far larger than some pimp's desire for power. Most likely, Ellie was just a small piece in whoever's game was being played. A small piece who'd attempted a big move. And Sheriff Jay had thwarted it.

He gave himself a mental pat on the back for having the fortitude to end the play without hesitation. And tomorrow, he'd strike another blow against his invisible enemy by giving one of its agents a burning, East Complex death.

He fell asleep with glass in hand.

And awoke to the stench of morning corpses. It may have been a mistake to let them dry on the floor, but Sheriff Jay was _the _Sheriff Jay, after all, and he wasn't likely to be investigated. A gate around his yard kept his neighbors from seeing two problems through his open doorway. It was 0600 hours. He dragged them into his backyard where he burned them in the fire pit, then mopped the blood off of the floor and walls. It didn't take too long. Only thirty minutes work required to seamlessly remove two people from Nevada.

Only a few people showed up to work today. It was Friday, after all, and they still hadn't been paid. Among them were Deputy Thomas, the probably treacherous police-woman, and a few other unimportant people, all equipped with plenty of cards to play and words to shoot the breeze.

One of them was not equipped for the day's task. "Officer." Said the Sheriff to the police-woman. "You have a very important task today. Head to North Complex for your instructions."

"What's my task?" She asked.

"To become the greatest hero in SINPD history. You might save up to 32 people today." 36 units had gone into the complex, but Unit Kara had already confirmed four of them dead. "Tally-ho."

An hour later, the police-woman and her small group of North Complex units, selected from the prestigious Squadron A, (formerly Squadron B), would be heading into the facility. Sheriff Jay wanted to give his officers a show. They needed to see the results of dissidence. He tuned their radios all to the frequency he'd given Unit Kara so that they could listen to the ensuing havoc at East Complex.

Kara's voice connected them all with bell-like clarity. No 'overs' would be needed today. "Okay, officer." She said. "Enter the barracks at the center of the complex. Prepare for hostile forces."

The officer reported that her group had entered the building and was sweeping the first floor.

"Now, descend to Floor B2. Use the stairs. Once you're there, there's a hidden door at the end of the hallway. Take some time to find it."

Two floors and half a hallway's worth of footsteps.

"What is that?" Came a voice through the speakers. _"What the hell is that?"_

Someone vomited over the radio.

"Bodies." Was the response. It came from a shaken officer.

"These," said a member of North Complex's new Squadron A, "are the bodies of Erik and Alex. I played pingpong with them in the Rec Room."

Everyone was very quiet. "They're dead." Said Kara. "You can go around them."

"How did this happen?" Asked the officer. "Who killed these men?"

"The things we're fighting against." Said Kara automatically, the loyal soldier in her showing its face. "They aren't a who, they're a what. And you all are the only ones who'll stand against them: Good Agency units."

The sound of a body swishing on its noose came through the speakers while the units slid past. Ever the thorough reporter, the officer described the body swinging from the ceiling, the brainless corpse leaning against the wall, and even the lone finger on the ground.

Soon enough, the group had arrived at the hidden door. "Should we open it?" Asked the officer.

Kara was silent for a moment. Splashing water sounded through the radios, then what seemed like a violent struggle. A string of pops. A grunt. A death.

"Yes." Kara said through heavy panting. "But hostile forces are extremely likely. Stay vigilant."

"It's very cold." Remarked some group member when the station heard a door creak open. He was quickly warmed up by a spray of hot bullets.

The police station filled the next minutes with open jaws and tightly clenched fists. Shots and cries echoed from the radios.

"Find the open grate!" Kara yelled.

"Run, run, run, get away from the cells, shit, shit, get in that cell, kill it kill it kill it fuck its got me fuckfuckfuckfuck, we have to get out of he-, fuckfuckfuckfuckfu-, it's right there the grate is right there it's-, fuckfuckfuckfuck..."

The sound from the radio became little more than a babble of voices, only a few words discernible through gunshots and shouts. When a unit died, his radio stayed alive, and everyone on the frequency could hear what was being done to his body. Kara attempted to shut off this function, but didn't succeed until the group had exited the prison. Six radios were shut off, and two units were stuck alive in a cell, so Kara guided them down some other route.

This meant that there were four left alive in the group of the ten that had entered. Six had died in their first brush with battle, likely due to their combat inexperience. The Sheriff held no wonder whether the other four would fall.

Someone in the station vomited into their trash can. Whoever it was was the only one to do so, but everyone else had equally disgusted looks. Everyone but the Sheriff.

Kara guided the group of four together again. "Do you see tire tracks going down the tunnel? Good. Follow them all the way until the crashed truck."

Footsteps, and comments on the sheer number of bodies lying around the tracks. "This is a massacre." Someone said. The group walked only for a few hours, never meeting any of the dead ends that Kara had. The police station was kept engaged by harsh battles of ever increasing frequency. The officer reported that their ammo had run out and that they'd be fighting with only their knives. The officer reported on the incredible strength of their enemies. The officer reported on the death of another group member.

Eventually, the officer reported on seeing the same thing as Kara: The inside of a specific stone cavern. The Sheriff wondered if they'd truly make it out now, if they were moments from blasting through the ceiling of the tunnel and climbing the rubble to a location a few miles from the East Complex. Then he heard a crackle on the radio. He first thought it was radio static, but the longer he listened, it seemed to sound closer to fire.

"Officer Eila reporting to base." Said the deathbound police-woman with a quivering voice. "We are out of ammunition. There are too many of them to fight. This... this will be my last report."

There were no gunshots to be heard.

"Over and out."

The Sheriff turned off his radio, content just to watch the faces of his fellow police force as they witnessed the punishment for treason through agonized radio waves. They all stuck with the sound for the final minutes of their colleague's life, but there were no cheers of encouragement, no smiles. There were only blank stares as a dissident officer turned to a confirmed kill.

Gradually, the radios shut off.

Heads were held in hands, a trance overtook some.

There was too much shock for tears.

"Officer Eila made a valiant effort." Said the Sheriff solemnly. "It's a shame that some of her friends weren't here for her last moments."

This struck a deep pang of remorse into Sheriff Jay's officers, until, "That's bullshit," slipped from Deputy Thomas's mouth.

Sheriff Jay gave him a calculating glance. "Her death?"

"Those creatures are like a virus." Said the deputy. He was still very quiet. "An incurable virus. One that 36 of the best men in the world couldn't fight. They don't 'think', Jay, they aren't the 'enemy'. They're just... a force of nature. They're a certain death. And you knew that."

The deputy was quiet again. Then he stood up straight, knocking back his chair. He made his way to the door and left without a word.

No one reacted to Deputy Thomas's speech. Sheriff Jay could only watch as they processed it, wondering just what level of evil their chief had attained.

As if to grind even deeper the salt that Deputy Thomas had shaken onto the Sheriff's wound, he burst in again through the door, barely containing a righteous fury. "Well, it turns out that I can't leave." Deputy Thomas said through his agitation. Some heat was seeping past the cracks of his quiet tone. "All four of my tires are slashed."

At this, the deputy stalked back over to his desk, kicking his chair out of the way and slapping his hand down on a piece of paper. "Is it because of this, Jay?" He asked, brandishing it like a weapon. "Is it because we've been _fucking _with you a little bit? Fine, then, if it gets my goddamn tires slashed by a goddamn child of a sheriff, take the goddamn thing! You'll never see another one like it, Sheriff _fucking _Jay!" He crumpled the photo and threw it at the Sheriff's feet. "Because I'm done here. I quit."

Sheriff Jay had a feeling that this wasn't a two weeks notice.

"Can anybody with intact tires give me a ride home?" The deputy asked with venom. He was immediately offered aid by everyone in the office. In turn, each of them left, every one giving Sheriff Jay a loathing look.

Sheriff Jay was alone again. He bent over and picked up the piece of paper from the floor. It was a picture, crumpled now, of the Sheriff entering a hotel room with a prostitute. It was an unexpected photo, seemingly taken from a security camera of the hotel Sheriff Jay had so often visited. _In retrospect,_ thought the Sheriff, _assuming that Officer Eila had broken funding was a far conclusion to jump to._ He went to Deputy Thomas's files and searched until he found the one he was looking for.

The NA-667 was a form of necessary submission once a month for all SIN government services. Without it, the results could be drastic for certain branches of government. Knowing this as a simple, basic fact, Sheriff Jay had sent in the form about two weeks ago. Yet, here it was, laying in Deputy Thomas's first drawer.

Then the Sheriff remembered. Just like Ellie, Deputy Thomas had tried to convince him to deal with the ones who'd attacked East Complex. The Sheriff could tell that Tommygun was the only one involved in his own tires being slashed. And now Sheriff Jay had lost his police force and his most valuable Agency assets.

His plots had failed, his schemes had fallen through. The Sheriff was left with nothing but enemies on every front. His only ally was The Agency, but The Agency was in the process of being violently castrated. Maybe he could save it. Maybe he could help it before it was destroyed, use it to regain some semblance of power.

He returned home with this on his mind. Even with all the enemies around him, at least he still got to live in luxury. He imagined the drinks he would pour, the movies he could relax to when he got back.

He entered his house. He found his luxury gone, his bottles smashed, and his television cracked. Everything breakable was broken, and even unbreakable things like the floor were bashed with hammers and shot to splinters. A text came to his phone. Just Daddy Flow asking if the Sheriff was enjoying his renovations.

He took a trip to Base Complex, praying to any god that would listen that it wouldn't be sending black smoke into the sky. It wasn't, so he used his ID to pass the steep gates and enter the front building, Base Headquarters and Communications. He was an honored guest at The Agency, so there was no need to set up an appointment. But the CEO of The Agency was nowhere to be found. Nor were the Base Complex Director, Task Director, or anyone else that the Sheriff needed. He found this while asking the secretary for a meeting, and realized that although the Complex was not burning, it had been crippled in far more subtle ways. The soldiers of North Complex still remained, though. Not nearly all of the new Squadron A had been sent to East Complex with the probably-not-dissident officer, so plenty of firepower was left at the Sheriff's disposal. But when the Sheriff asked about this, he was given some very poor news.

"I've been told that our remaining units are being held carefully in reserves until they've undergone further training. We're operating at a deficit of units as it is. We can't afford to send any more on threatening missions at the moment, at least not until we've rebuilt our militia. I'm very sorry Sheriff Jay." She said with a look of earnest regret.

The Sheriff was running low on options. "I need these troops very badly." He said. "For self defense. Not very many of them, even. But my life is in danger. Please, tell me. Is there anything I can do?"

The secretary sighed. "I was told... strange events have taken place, Sheriff Jay, I'm sure you're very aware of that. Little as we'd like to show it, the Agency has fallen on hard times. Half our board of directors is... just gone, in the sense that we can't even find them. But the owner of the Agency does have a deal he might cut you."

"What is it?" The Sheriff demanded.

"The Agency has lost most of its structure. Shareholders are vanishing from thin air, and more than anything else right now, what we need is intelligent men. The owner told me that whoever can lend support to The Agency will have access to its full resources, and he's said that unlikely as it was for you to join, you'd be his favorite candidate to control what's left of The Agency. He'd leave all major decisions up to your discretion - he truly believes in your ability to repair our system. And, I assume that in your situation you might be more open to the idea."

This required little thought on the part of Sheriff Jay. The resources of this organization were being handed to him on a silver platter, and all he had to do was assume control. "If I were to accept, what responsibilities would I have?" He asked.

"You'd be required to follow any instructions that the owner gives you, but I'm told that this would be minimal. This might include sending your troops after certain hostiles or devoting funding to certain areas. Again, he trusts you to take care of things." She said. The Sheriff could tell that The Agency's owner hadn't thought Sheriff Jay would truly hear this offer. But the event had aligned in perfect position to save the Sheriff.

"I accept." He said without hesitation. "Let the owner give me any order he wants. I'm beyond happy to trade the police station for The Agency itself."

The secretary smiled. "We're beyond happy to have you."

"The only other thing is that my home is no longer livable. Can The Agency provide accommodations for me?" He asked.

The secretary stood. "All three of our Complex Directors are gone. You can house yourself in any one of their B1 floors... well, except East Complex, for obvious reasons. In fact, the B1 room here would be ready to house you immediately."

Sheriff Jay breathed in the air of a new start. He accepted, and let the pretty secretary lead him to his luxurious floor. He wasn't sure exactly what Agency position he'd accepted, only that he was in control. He decided to retain the title 'Sheriff', as he'd grown fond of it in his years of policing SIN.

"Say, I never learned the name of The Agency's owner." He told the secretary.

"He's a bit enigmatic. Your stereotypical eccentric millionaire." She joked. "We just call him Mr. A."


	7. The Savior

"No one has ever gone into heaven except the one who came from heaven—the Son of Man."

As always, his father spoke with passion. Pacing steps, energy-filled pauses, and calculated winks to the audience. James leaned in a bit closer. His favorite part was coming up soon.

"Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him."

The pews were packed to capacity so that there was standing room only in the church. No listener was bored, and none wanted to leave. James held his breath for his favorite verse of the Bible, the one he'd read over and over again.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because they have not believed in the name of God's one and only Son."

James mouthed the words just as his father spoke them. They filled him with joy, gave him faith that his mother would have eternal life, that they would all be lifted up. And those who'd mocked James? Those who'd mocked God? The Bible told him that all of them stood condemned already.

"This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been done in the sight of God."

His father closed the Bible quietly. Now, James expected his father to be silent for a time, to keep the audience anticipating the next words of the sermon.

His father took his time putting away the Bible, stepping in slow, sweeping motion, and setting it down gently, like the sacred thing it was. His father closed his eyes in serenity before he spoke again.

"I am tempted." He said plainly. The words radiated without shame or concern. "Each day I see temptations, because I am Man."

James knew that this would be his father's confession.

"This is my confession, friends of the church. Every day I feel some pain, every day I feel some anger. Every day I feel some spite, every day I feel some envy. Some days I give in to temptation. Yesterday, I spoke harshly against a medical professional. I was angry at pain, and I bit the hand that was trying its best to aid my wife."

James never heard his father's sermons before the masses did. James liked the feeling of discovering great words in the midst of his flock. But he also liked the thrill of knowing the words before they'd been spoken.

"Harsh words are not the path of light, my friends. Harsh words come from darkness, and as regrettable as it is, each among us commit uncountable sins."

_So,_ James thought, _don't love harsh words._

"But we read in scripture not that the condemned are those who commit darkness. We do not read that harsh words lead to condemnation. We read only that the condemned are the ones who love darkness. We read that the condemned are the ones who love their harsh words."

Another pause. No 'ums' or 'uhs' would be heard tonight. If his father ever needed to think about his next words, he would not let it be known by speaking incoherently. 'Um' was uncertain. Silence was powerful.

"Every day I give some regret, every day I give some recompense. Every day I give some penance, every day I give some apology."

And his father didn't love harsh words.

"Because I speak harsh words, but I don't love them. I'm never proud of my anger, I never revel in spite. I am not afraid to think of them as mistakes. I'm not afraid to speak of them as such. Because I believe in God, and inhabit a world spilling over with light."

His father had shared enough anecdote. It was time to turn his light to the audience. And, James predicted a bit of noise.

"Friends! Do not be afraid of your darkness! Don't be afraid to expose it, to turn on it the light of truth, because this is the _only _way darkness is overcome! You walk each day with an almighty shepherd, and like Moses, Jesus never sets down his torch! When you fear the darkness is when you distrust your shepherd, and when you distrust your shepherd is when you stray into the darkness!"

The audience was riveted. James watched closely, constructing the most likely progression of the speech. Next would be a tragedy.

"We all remember the shooting at Nevada High." He said. The audience shivered; James's father had fearlessly pressed on a fresh wound. James's father refused to censor himself. "The perpetrators were not the kind to repent for their sins. They were not the kind to let light into the darkness. If they had been, they wouldn't have killed themselves at the end of their massacre. Suicide was a cheap way for them to run from the light. Pray to God, and he'll assure you that those who recognize and repent for the darkness will not be driven to such extremes."

Audiences didn't like to feel tense, of course. His father would ease them back with a bit of humor.

"Some sins can be smaller than others. My old beard, for example..." His father said with a smile. The audience gave nervous laughter. "Luckily, that sin didn't drive me into darkness. He told me in a dream that it wasn't the world wonder I thought it was." Another laugh. "Or maybe that was just my wife whispering in my ear. Well, it is just as righteous to protect the ones you love, I suppose."

James had thought of a better joke. But that one had served plenty well. James studied the remainder of the sermon, always thinking of his favorite verse.

James complimented his father at the end of the sermon, praising his passion. "Oh, please." Said his father, waving off the congratulations. "False praise gives no solace to this older man. My prose is getting tiresome to our audience. They want somebody young."

This again. James's heart beat faster at the thought of it. "I'm no speaker. Not like you. I could never write something so moving."

His father laughed, eyes twinkling, and patted James on the back. "You are God's creation, are you not?" He asked. James nodded. "Well, doubting God's creation is a hazardous sin. We all play a part in His plan, and I think we both know what your part is." His father said, wearing a goofy face.

"Maybe someday." James replied.

His father thought for a moment. "You're very quiet, James. A soft spoken man. There's no trouble with this, only that for you, I think it arises from your level of confidence."

James didn't reply. He supposed he was too soft spoken for that.

"You'll trust the creator, James. Actually, I think you'll trust him next Sunday." Said his father with a smirk. James knew exactly what his father meant. He knew that his father would let him out of a sermon if that was what James wished, but he also knew that his father would not let him escape the guilt of doing so, and that James would end up speaking regardless of what he said now. He decided so skip this process and agree.

"Alright." James said. His father's eyebrows raised high.

"Really?" His father asked. "I thought that would be a battle."

It never would have been. James was excited for the speech, already constructing a few memorable phrases in his head. By the time they'd driven home, he'd picked just which passages to include, planned a stirring outline, and conceived psychologically surgical rhetoric.

He told his mother about his planning as soon as he got home.

"I might not be as animated as dad, and I probably won't enunciate as well. But I know what a sermon looks like, and that's something of dad's I can surely emulate. The creation. Maybe not the delivery." He told her.

She put an adoring hand on his shoulder. It was frailer than ever before, but her frailty was the only thing James didn't notice. He was too intent on his mothers sharpened mind to notice her dulled body. "Delivery comes with confidence. Enunciation, energy, projection, and all the rest. An infant confident enough could engage a listening crowd."

James smiled. His mother and father were both funny, but James took after his mother's humor. "Calling me an infant isn't doing anything to bolster my confidence, mom."

She laughed, but it turned in to a cough. He grabbed her water without thinking about it. Coughs didn't matter until blood came with them.

"Dad uses your illness as inspiration for his sermons. He talks about the pain in illness, the pain in life, and how he and the flock can overcome it. But I don't think that would work for me."

She furrowed her brow. "Why not? Am I not sick enough for you?"

He shook his head. "When dad sees you, he worries about the illness, how we're going to cure it, how it's hurting you. Every moment of pain it causes you probably causes the same to him tenfold. But when I see you, I don't see the illness at all. My sermon will still be inspired by you, but it won't be about overcoming the illness and fighting the darkness. It'll be about seeing the joy and enjoying the light."

His mother agreed. "Why spend all your time warring against the bad when you could be campaigning for the good? One sounds much more fun than the other."

James smiled at that. A nice, concise way of putting his words. His mother understood him. James was reminded of an old place they used to go, a pretty grove that only the two of them knew about. She'd gone there as a child, and had passed the place on to James.

"I know that my sickness has limited my attendance at church, but I need to see your sermon. After all, it might be the only one I'll ever see from you." She said dryly. James was upset.

"That doesn't sound like a campaign for the good, mom." He said. She laughed.

"It's not, but I think I don't think my campaigning will matter for much longer." His mother.

"It'll matter to dad and me." James said without thinking. "And it will matter to you too. We've been seeing the best doctors in the world."

"Then the world must really not give a shit." She muttered. She apologized for swearing in front of James, but he would only be comfortable if she were comfortable, so he told her that apology was unnecessary.

James thought about his mother's words. "I suppose I can't ask you to hope that you'll get better." He assumed. "But dad would say..." James caught himself. Dad would say that faith in the shepherd was the only path to righteousness. Dad would imply that his mother didn't have enough faith, and he would make her feel guilty of sin. James didn't think that would help his mother. "Why don't you wait until the sermon." He said, and left. This really would need to be special.

James scribbled words every day of that week. Easy classes weren't nearly enough to divert his attention from the sermon to come. He took biblical notes during lectures, drove concepts on the way home, ate scripture for dinner, dreamed of eternal sleep, and woke to developed thoughts. His days of being were replaced by days of writing, and he had so much material by the end of the week that he had to shear huge chunks of it to keep it short enough. What he had left after all the editing was only the best portions of his writings. His father pestered him incessantly for details, but James would not tell him a thing.

The Sunday of the speech finally arrived. The sanctuary seemed different to James now that he'd be on stage. His father gave the standard greeting and said a few words, then introduced James as a first time speaker. He was received with a torrent of applause.

He stepped up to the podium. His notes were written clearly on the paper before him, but James had already memorized the speech. He searched the crowd for the churchgoer that hadn't gone to church for months. There she was. She looked fragile to the flock around her, but James saw intent, intelligent eyes.

"Perception." James said. It wasn't a word that often came from this stage, as there was only one perspective the flock was intended to have: one looking from the earth to heaven. But it was important. Without perception, how would the first man have perceived his creator? "Our perception is our eyes, our hands, our ears, our tongue, our nose. You all are good at focusing, my father can attest to that. He's good at keeping your attention on the Bible, where it should be. God would have us look first to him, then to others, then to ourselves. Your eyes see me speak, your ears hear my words. You all know how to perceive God, how to see him through the sermon. God, others, self. You're good at the first, but I wonder if you skip over the second."

James scanned the crowd. He was paying attention to the second right now. Not the first, not the third. All on his mind were the reaction and presumed thoughts of the audience. They didn't understand, he could tell, which they weren't used to. They could always comprehend the words of his father. Still, he pressed on.

"I believe that you see others. You see me as a piece in God's plan, the deliverer of my own interpretation of the Bible. You wonder whether you'll enjoy my sermon, or whether you won't. You see each other sometimes as helpers, and the rest of the time as obstacles. You see you spouses and children in mostly a positive light, as things that make you feel happy. Sometimes you see them as things that make you upset or exasperated." James said.

Some of the crowd was nodding assent. They were beginning to understand this concept of perception, and how they saw everything around them. But even if they thought they did, they had no clue as to the sermon's direction.

"This is selfish." He said. He allowed a pause for his audience to process the three words, then continued. "You see me as a thing that gives you words, and my value is based on whether you like the words or not. You see each other as things that help or hinder you, and their value is based on which one of those they do, and how well they do it. You see your families as things that make you feel happy, and their value is based on their never making you not so."

He'd made the crowd uncomfortable, but not with a tragedy. With accuracy.

"It is only human to be selfish." He consoled. "So long as we try to help those in need, how can we be blamed for the nature of our minds? There's nothing sinful about selfishness. But I wonder, might increased perception yield extra enjoyment to the self?" James studied the audience. Even now, he perceived what their minds said.

"Illness is painful. It's the first thing you'll perceive, but it is uncomfortable, and it will have little value to you. You'll retract your attention from something as soon as it hurts. And in doing so, you'll fail to see anything but the pain. I posit that any pain can contain pleasure, any sorrow can contain joy. Perceive the good." Now the audience was beginning to see. James wasn't sure, but maybe some of them, maybe his father was seeing a healthy woman's mind in the light of comprehension. Or in the light of God.

"'Whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been done in the sight of God.' So, live by the truth. Come into the light. Be seen by God. And let also the rest of the world live by truth, come into your light, be seen by you. You're created in God's image, and God is infinitely perceptive. You may not be omniscient, but you can be perceptive, just like Him."

James continued. The rest of his sermon was more standard for this church, and allowed them to relax their walls in the sight of the Lord. He incorporated all of his hard built rhetoric and lines, and left the stage to the loudest clapping he'd ever heard in this room.

After the service, his father seemed awestruck. James was generally quiet around his father, honestly in reverence, so had seemed a radical leap from James's ordinary demeanor. His mother just smiled, though. Together, they always spoke like this. She only spoke about his sermon when they were alone and he was helping her into bed.

"Touching sermon." She said. "I think it's obvious that you have a gift for that delivery you were so worried about."

He laughed. "Maybe so. I've been watching expert delivery for the past sixteen years."

She sighed as she rested her head on the pillow. "Sixteen years. You've gotten old, James."

"Nearly a senior citizen." He quipped.

"You jest, but sixteen years is a long time. Just think, you've gone from an infant with nothing in its head to a man contemplating perception and calculus." She said.

"Calculus is just school. An infant could do it." He replied.

"But with all your sixteen years of perceiving, you never learned how to perceive." She continued. This stopped him entirely. The conversation he thought was a game for him to easily play had transformed into a complex, obscure beast of a puzzle.

"I perceive. Better than the rest of our flock, probably. Didn't my sermon show perception?" He asked. He really couldn't predict what concepts his mother would bring.

"Your perception is strong, if only you'd use it. You tell your audience to perceive the good in the world, just like you do. You tell them to determine what others are feeling and thinking, not just what other's are doing to them. But you perceive no more fully than they do. You perceive what you want to perceive." His mother thought about her next words carefully. "My world is ending." She said. "That is something quite clear, but you never would have imagined it happening."

"Yes I would." He answered. "I know that death comes for everyone. But it doesn't need to come for you yet."

She shook her head. "Firstly, it has come for me twice in the past month, only barely to be fended off. Secondly, you still fail to perceive my full meaning."

He tried to perceive what her full meaning might be. All he could think was that she had resigned herself to death, given up faith in medicine. She didn't seem to be saying anything more than that.

"I suppose that nobody's perception is perfect. So, tell me what to see, and I'll see it." He said. "Just tell me."

She shook her head again. "That's not perception. That's cordiality. And that is unhelpful for anyone, the selfless or the selfish."

"Mom, I..." He began.

"You should go." She said. "I need a little time."

He talked to his father about the sermon after he'd left the room. His father hadn't perceived the meaning underneath the words, the one about sickness, but he'd loved it in any case. "They want you again next Sunday." His father said. "I accepted for you, so don't worry about trying to refuse. It's fine if it's hard to top the whopper you gave during the service - Sunday is Easter, and they'll be looking for something lighthearted. I anticipate the day."

So did James. But he couldn't keep his mother's words out of his mind. How could he be imperceptive? He'd mastered perception, from perfect predictions to skillful crowd manipulation. What more was there to perceive?

The week went by quickly. School was light, so he had plenty of time to write for the service and talk to his mother. Their talks were of ever increasing joy to James. Each day she seemed to be happier to see him than the last. Importance steadily drained from their conversations, and the burden of thought was lifted from his shoulders whenever he saw her. The thought of her sitting through his lighthearted Easter sermon was just too exciting. He was hopeful about her future, and loved her beyond compare, and on Saturday night she died.

He didn't actually believe it, of course, even when he saw her body being wheeled out of the house and taken to a mortuary. She could not possibly be dead, because God's plan would not have included that, and he perceived a great faith from the Lord, and he wanted to put off his sermon until she could be there for it. He told his father that he couldn't give the words. He needed time for healing.

"You're right, James, you do need healing. Church is how we heal. And as for giving a sermon, there is no greater catharsis." Said his father. James hadn't seen his father cry yet. Just further proof that his mother was alright.

James entered the church Easter morning, prepared near the community had already been shaken by the death of his mother, and they didn't know what to expect from the boy who'd just lost his entire world. So when his speech began chipper and dapper as ever, they were put off.

James began, with plenty of jokes, to discuss the gifts and miracles of God. Omit all the surface bad, he'd deliver them perception of the purest good. James talked first about biblical miracles, then about miracles in his own life. When he mentioned the miracle of rebirth in reference to his mother, the crowd began to murmur.

And his father began to weep.

James perceived this. It seemed unusual, considering that his mother would be reborn. Didn't his father know this? Didn't he have the proper faith?

No, his father had to have the proper faith. He was the pastor. He'd taught James everything James knew about God. So, his father was faithful, but still didn't believe that his mother would be reborn. One of great faith believed that his mother was dead.

_Even so, _James thought, _we'll see her once we, too, ascend to heaven. It will all come in time._ He knew for a certainty that his father would agree with that. Maybe James should have perceived that his mother would die, and he should have consoled her with words of the afterlife.

But then James remembered something his mother had said. "My world is ending," she had said. This was strange wording, wasn't it? She could have said that her life was ending, or simply that she was about to die. James remembered how carefully she had thought about her words before she'd said what she'd said.

Then James understood. Her life wasn't just ending. Her entire consciousness was. His mother had believed that when she died, there would be no heaven to receive her. And she had been right that she was close to death.

His mother was right. She was more perceptive than he had ever been, for though he looked deeper than most, he still never saw what he didn't wish to see. He'd seen through her illness so thoroughly that he missed the illness itself. Now he knew that he'd applied that same selective vision to the church he loved.

James's arms fell to his side, papers drifting carelessly to the floor. The sermon was over. The jokes had dried, shrunk, and flaked to dust. James was done.

He didn't go home. And hard as his father tried to find him, James knew a place where he'd never be discovered. The old grove that he and his mother had picnicked at when he was a child. He remembered what his mother had said about the place.

"I found it as a girl. It was the only place I could go when my parents were yelling and my friends were being stupid." She'd smiled to a toddler who could identify with the second.

There was no yelling here. But James felt a great deal of stupidity.

"That's why I never showed my friends or my parents. Even your dad doesn't know. You're the only one, James." She'd said.

So, his mother wouldn't be reborn. She wouldn't live on in heaven. The church had been wrong. The church had _lied_. The pastors were evil. Christianity was evil.

His father was evil.

James slept until dark. When he awoke, he was still on the soft grass of the grove, and knew what he would do. He decided to remember everything about this place during his service.

His military career began with a lie about his age. He was surrounded constantly by men older and stronger than him, and he had to become strong to compete. Drills went from impossible to easy, exercise went from atypical to routine, training situations went from complex to pliant. Soon, he was truly eighteen, and his physical strength was a much closer reflection of his mental power.

He did a tour. It was his first trip out of Nevada. His first kill was hard, knowing that the dead man would not be resurrected in heaven, but as war taught him more about human nature, he forsook morals in retaliation against his amoral surroundings.

His aversion to Christianity faded, emotion left behind. There had been no lie, only inaccuracy. He was no longer atheist from sorrow, but just a lack of perception of any gods. This was a sad thing, to know the world was harsh and lawless, but his mother had taught him postmortem to accept all of reality, not just the good.

James became a renowned soldier, but always enigmatic. This, due to distaste for any fellow soldiers. Eventually, after countless tours without reason, James gained a distaste for America. When no longer wished to be a patriot, he deserted and returned to his humble home in Nevada. He'd grown a small black beard, and he knew that nobody would recognize him if he stuck to the shadows, so he sat through one of his father's sermons. He was not impressed. The passion had left his father's voice, and the pews held maybe a third of their former occupants.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but will have eternal life." Said his father in a tired voice. Under his breath, James said it too. Afterwards, James found that the preacher spoke that verse at the end of every sermon, as it had been his son's favorite. James perceived that the verse had a special meaning to his father. One about losing a son.

After only a few days, James missed the feeling of a gun in his hand, and applied to some agency whose flyers were ubiquitous around SIN. He shaved his beard and showed up to the interview with a fake last name - Christoff, in memory of his old religion - and showed no credentials but impressive strength and accuracy. He found that the Agency required no more than this. He went through a month of easy training that he quickly tired of. He was placed in what they called 'Squadron C' of 'North Complex', the place to be if you were a rookie of under one year's experience.

Impressive feats of violence bumped him months prematurely to Squadron B, where he was actually engaged with his assignments. He experienced a level of freedom that he hadn't experienced in... well... his entire life. Christian parents (or just parent) had allowed very little in his sixteen years of living with them, and the following six had somehow managed to be even more restrictive. The Agency required absolute discipline during assignments, but outside of this, it didn't care what you did or what happened to you.

Having intimate knowledge of freedom, James felt a spark of life reignite inside him. He could finally take what we wanted without fear of being reprimanded by his father or dishonorably discharged by the military. It felt as though he'd never truly lived his life before, and he was just now beginning.

He began falling asleep to a mind full of thoughts, and waking up with the grin of a good dream. He decided to anonymously donate large sums of his paycheck to his father's church. He jogged in the mornings, trained hand-to-hand at noon, sprayed bullets in the evening, and boxed at night. Best of all, his sense of humor returned.

His drill sergeant quickly realized that James was far too experienced for a rookie position. He was moved to Squadron A, where he met a whole host of new people. He'd never seen most of them, and it would be a blank slate. A chance to start over.

He decided to advance from the shadows, take leave of his emotionless, non-empathetic mask. The first people he met were a tightly knit, skilled couple of professionals who were grieving for their lost member.

They consisted of Kara and Harry. The woman was not welcoming to him (although he was quite attracted to her), but James quickly befriended Harry. Harry privately told James that he was pining for Kara, and James immediately decided that their couple name would be harakiri. Harry enjoyed that.

He'd been with the group for a few months, and both Kara and Harry had gotten distinct impressions of James. Then they got news of an attack on East Complex.

James's perception was sharp. Curiosity boundless, James knew books of information about the East Complex, Sheriff Jay, and the more highly guarded aspects of the Agency. He calculated that Sheriff Jay was being extorted in some way, but the methods of such extortion were difficult to grasp - it had been a long time since he'd been in Nevada, and new developments, such as teleportation and ethereal hostiles, had come as a surprise to James. Maybe he'd been too sheltered, but he'd never heard of such things as a child.

So James was skeptical that the attackers of the East Complex were any more threatening than the average, fragile human. He mocked Kara, suggesting that she believed in "teleporting ghouls and gooks and other monsters of the scary kind." But he'd learned to question his own beliefs. His mind was open to the supernatural.

So he kept up his carefree, slightly dopey demeanor on the way into the East Complex. But, inside, every second was a display of the utmost vigilance. Every table was noted, every room was catalogued. James had no margin for error.

The top floor was where things became interesting. After a game of pool and a joke about masturbation, the lights went out. Uh-oh. Perception required sight, and James was probably the first one to turn on his light. He saw a gate blocking the stairwell just before Matt called it out.

"There's a gate blocking the stairwell." Matt said. James could see even before Matt pushed on it that he wouldn't get it to budge. He predicted that the headstrong Kara would then attempt either to shoot or kick it down, that Harry and Alex would join in, and that Erik and Matt would be scared of the dark.

Thirty seconds proved him right on all counts. He smiled at himself, pool cue in hand. The world could be very, very predictable.

Except, of course, for the supernatural events that James had such little experience with. So when they descended to Floor Four to find a lone man taking a shower, James was put off. He joined Kara behind a locker, preparing to give cover fire should she need it.

She locked up for a minute. He could hear her breath. She seemed scared of the man beyond reason, despite the fact that he only had a gun. He decided not to touch or speak to her, as she was so tense that she might've fired in his direction.

The lights flickered out, and the man appeared one shower closer to the locker, as though he'd been there the entire time. That was unusual.

Kara finally gained the nerve to shoot three rounds at the man, forgoing any preemptive questions. It seemed rational enough - the man could hardly have been anything but a threat.

But it turned out that the dead man was Matt's friend, and Matt was very upset at Kara. A strange fury overtook James when Matt whispered that Kara was a bitch, and James used his years of emotionless, inveterate coldness to deal an agonizing blow to the man.

He whistled, stuck his finger in the corpse's bullet wounds, and commented on the strength of the group's guns. When Matt pushed James back, it only took two words to push him over the edge. James dodged Matt's blow, Kara intervened, once again receiving the brunt of Matt's anger. Then she calmed him. James took note of the tactic she used.

"You've really got a firm grip on their balls, don't you?" He asked her after. As his facade dictated, he was obligated to use coarse language to describe a true concept. Her level of control was truly impressive. And he didn't believe it to be for the good.

Later, Kara found a non-existent something on the floor. James had no trouble believing that it had existed before, then vanished, and he studied her eyes with a keen curiosity. Something in this place was trying to destroy her. Because she was the leader, he understood. Because she was the strongest, it would make her feel insane. James subtly questioned Alex, Erik, and even Kara herself to determine that she'd seen a trail of blood leading into the room, and knew that he would need to address this.

On their next sweep, he took her into a room, removed their masks, and made her comfortable on the bed. He voiced her thoughts from his mouth in an attempt to make her feel better. Unfortunately, she was smart enough to see through it, and she looked at him with a wondering face.

"Why are you trying to make me feel... I mean, I never thought... why are you doing this?" She asked.

He couldn't answer her, but if he could, he'd tell her that parts of the world she was seeing were not a delusion, but someone's lie. Instead, he told her that she needed to be strong, and that this was the time for her to rest.

He perceived that she was going to kiss him, and he stopped her before their lips touched. But he couldn't help feeling the energy. His passion was the same as hers. "A leader needs to be focused." He reminded her.

She got up when Harry knocked, moving as though she'd been repaired. Still, James knew his work wasn't done.

They descended to a fancy B1, where James faux begged to stay, and a freezing B2, where James acted as tired as all the others, and they lost Erik and Alex. Sweeping for them was unsuccessful, and James was quite certain that they were dead.

They could have left then. Probably, they could have escaped the complex unscathed, which was a luxury most other Squadron A members probably wouldn't have. But James was still bound by a strange desire to fight that had steadily risen in him since the age of sixteen, and he couldn't ignore the opportunity. He'd seen the door almost as soon as they'd entered B2, and he had to go through. He knew that Kara would take them.

"It's not the last floor." James told them. He opened the door with a blue key from a scientist's room, and allowed Kara to make them descend.

He got a little angrier at Matt when Matt once again called Kara a bitch.

Prison. No, more like a cage full of lab rats. The scientists likely made vile use of these men in their chemical testing. James kept an eye on Kara, making sure she was safe as she entered a cell and fought off a black-eyed prisoner. Of course, every cell had two prisoners, so he knew when Matt screamed that Matt had found the other one.

James took careful note of a couple exits that he may need as contingency. Among them was a grate leading into a sewer.

The hostiles started pouring in. An easily surmountable obstacle, had they been human, but there was an alien quality about them that made them resistant to multiple bullets. James assumed that this was due to the smoke, and was glad to be wearing an gas mask. In any case, knowing that they could not kill them all, James satisfied himself by killing a large swathe of them and ensuring that Kara had an easy path to the stairs. They fired until Harry came back, then they went upstairs.

Only, upstairs wasn't upstairs. James was sure that he was the only one to notice it, but the B2 they returned to was not the B2 they'd come from. He couldn't place the differences, but...

Oh. Well, the differences became more pronounced when they rounded the corned to see a dead Erik hanging from the ceiling.

A smoke addled Alex appeared behind James, slashing a finger from James's hand and breaking his gas mask against the wall. Harry ran away, Kara fell into Erik's pool of blood, and James shot Alex in the side of the head just before the devilish creature did terrible things to the pretty girl.

And then the dead man supported James's theory by implying that the two of them were 'not where they thought they were'. James shot him again, and walked Kara to what should have been B1, speaking calming words all the way.

But when Kara arrived at the door, she shook, and when James opened the door, his theory was confirmed. He was staring into the shower room of Floor Four, complete with a dead Harry and a once-again-standing Axel.

They moved back down to B3 in a hurry. James was no longer burdened with a full group of people, so he mowed through all hostiles until he found the sewer that he remembered. He blew it up and lowered them down, then walked with Kara until they found Matt, reconciled with him, and continued on until he found a nice truck loaded with heroin.

He hopped in and revved the engine, shouting out inspiration as a horde of scientists appeared around the corner.

"Hey!" Shouted Kara. "Someone could have heard that." And then she saw the hostiles as well.

"That someone's going to get run the fuck over." James replied. "Who wants shotgun?"


	8. The Savior, Part Two

**A/N: Apologies for missing the Friday deadline. There will be a a three week hiatus after this chapter in order to accumulate material. Expect the next on March 13th.**

Kara was reeling from the knowledge that she was still alive. She'd been to the edge of death twice in the past hour, and both times she'd walked away unharmed. Even stranger was James's sudden sincerity, the care he seemed to be showing for her. But it was difficult to consider these things and also deal with the approaching mob of scientists.

She clenched her rifle at the sound of gunfire, but it was just James, firing down at human-like creatures with one hand on the wheel and one foot on the accelerator. "Ahahahaha!" He laughed, projecting the hoot to a scientist-laden ground. The truck swerved suddenly, crushing two men beneath a wheel, and brown, rectangular bags spilled from the back. Another round of gunfire.

"Fire at will, men!" He shouted to them, a wicked smile on his face. James reveled in the carnage.

Matt took a few carefully placed shots, aiming for heads and necks, killing with two or three bullets each. Most scientists in the facility seemed to be down here and, all entrances having been closed, Kara imagined that this is where they were when the facility began to burn.

She shot the hand off one who'd grabbed the railing of the truck, but it pursued quickly on foot. It was actually gaining, moving at around twenty miles an hour. Matt put it down.

James soon passed the horde, to Kara's great relief. It was all that much more frightening, then, when James turned the truck around and went through them again, just to kill off the stragglers. Once they were all dead, Kara found herself low on ammunition. She hoped that they wouldn't meet any new hostiles on the way.

The drive lasted for a few minutes. After all, this was an Agency labyrinth, and it would have been planned with only the highest efficiency as a goal. However, just as they saw the steep, manmade incline that would take them out of the cave network, gunfire erupted on the front. "Get down!" James shouted. They all ducked, bullets blasting through the windshield glass and tire rubber.

James lay a gun on the accelerator, yelled to jump, and hit the ground with a roll. Kara and Matt followed. Their truck careened through a crowd of soldiers, followed closely by piercing Agency projectiles. Matt and Kara kneeled, carefully scoping each target, while James fired from a wide-legged stance.

The truck slipped, spun, tipped, and slid burning across bloody floor. Then the soldiers regrouped, some using the truck as a barricade, other's advancing quickly toward the three units. Kara saw James dart off to the side, followed him closely. He kept low to the ground, zigzagging to the cover of jutting wall. The approaching soldiers were accurate even when running, but still primarily a cover to distract from the sharpshooters bunkered behind the truck. James ignored the advancing soldiers, taking two bullets in the process, and lobbed his last grenade behind the truck.

The advancing soldiers scattered. They'd not been expecting their reserves to be killed, and whoever was instructing them took them seamlessly in all different directions, leaving them invulnerable to concentrated gunfire.

But North Complex weaponry was very good. James's rapid-fire shotgun threw piercing rounds in a wide cone from the barrel. With Kara and Matt to offer supporting fire, he mowed down half of them before he ran out of ammunition.

He unholstered his pistol and ran through their ranks, using their scattered strategy to prevent them from firing, for fear of hitting a friendly soldier. And they were incapable of retreating to safety, as James was in constant pursuit, and all walls and alcoves were within easy sight of either Matt or Kara.

They were forced to risk friendly fire to rid themselves of this new enemy. James tackled one and shot it through the head, stuck the pistol barrel through the impressive hole, and used the dead man as a shield through which to fire. Weak East Complex bullets had no hope of penetrating the sack of meat, and when James had finished his clip, he took the dead man's gun and kept firing.

But the more soldiers they killed, the harder it was to kill the remainder. One managed to get next to James while he was reloading. James gripped his barrel and swung the stock with full force at the soldier's head. The soldier caught it and tore it from James's hand, then pulled its pistol towards James's chest and James grabbed the soldiers wrist and forced it back so that the soldier fired up through its own chin. Blood briefly showered down on James.

Meanwhile, Kara was trembling, backing away from an unarmed aggressor. Unfortunately for her, it was Axel, twice revived and exponentially more sinister than before. He dealt a harsh backhand to her cheek, knocking her to the ground. Axel scooped her up and held her against the wall by the neck, battered cheek pressing against cold stone. Kara couldn't fight. There was no use in killing the immortal.

The sound of gunshots faded into the background: Overwhelmed by rushing blood and lack of air, the world's noise seemed distant. But Kara felt reverberate through her the immediate voice of the dead. _"You are a twist away from death, Kara Harding."_ Axel said, eyes aflame. She stayed limp against the jagged wall. The hold on her neck had not relaxed in the slightest, and the air brimming at her open lips was not free enough to enter her lungs. _"Your friends will die now. You may die now, or you may leave death for the stupid, to whom it belongs. Kill James for me."_

_But, _Kara reasoned, _James is not stupid. If death doesn't come for me, it will run from him._

She was too weak even to shake her head, so she said nothing. Accepting her response, Axel squeezed.

When the blackness faded, Kara lay staring into the eyes of Axel, a dead man. Dead, as in still and not breathing and dead. Shot in the head. The kind of dead she was comfortable with.

At least until she woke up next to it. She backed away quickly into the wall, then stood to see James pulling bullets out of himself. "Morning, sunshine." He said to her. She looked around.

"Where's Matt?" Kara asked.

James pointed to a still body, and her heart lurched to think he was dead. "He took a nap about the same time you did. You two are lucky I'm such an efficient grim reaper."

She let out a sigh of relief. Kara was tired of her friends dying. She hadn't been over her former teammate when James arrived, she was devastated from Harry's death, and losing another one seemed too much to bear. If they died, she might as well.

"Can I ask you something, Kara?" James said. She was past the point of responding. Right now, she could only be described as inert. James asked anyways. "What are you most afraid of?"

Kara couldn't think of an answer right away. Before she came here, she'd have had the same trouble because nothing scared her, but now she couldn't decide what she'd seen that was the most fearful. She chose an answer that she thought encompassed most of her experience here. "Weakness." She said.

James agreed. "A good fear. But not one you need to experience. You're the strongest fighter I know, what could make you feel weak?"

"The strongest fighter you know?" Kara repeated dully. "Strong fighting aims to win, and a won fight ends in death. If your opponent can't die, strong fighting is meaningless."

"Which opponent doesn't die?" James asked.

Kara pointed down at the man that had choked her earlier, the one that only James had had the power to save her from. He lay dormant now, but Kara knew that a bullet didn't mean death for the thing Axel had become. He'd taken three of them in the shower, what was another one?

James peered over. "Looks dead enough to me." He said. Truly, it was just an ordinary corpse. Another face no one knew, another puddle no one cared about. James wondered what was so special about the man.

"Can't you see it? Look at it's face. It's hair, look at that." She insisted, getting agitated now.

"I can see it fine." James said. What was going on?

"Dammit!" Kara shouted. "It's Axel, James, it's dead Axel! He can follow us wherever we go! He could rise from the dead this second and twist my neck!"

It wasn't Axel. James remembered Axel in great detail, especially because the man had incited so much fear in Kara. Now James understood. Now he'd found her fear.

"Kara, do you remember the trail of blood that you found in the hallway?" James asked her. Kara was surprised... she hardly remembered telling him anything about what she'd seen.

"Yes." She said.

"And the time in Floor Four when you saw Axel get a shower closer to you?"

She was taken aback. She had certainly told him nothing of that. But she was too tired to question him, so she nodded and let him speak.

"The blood was an illusion. Or, if it was real, it was erased the second time you went to look at it. When Axel got closer to us, that was an illusion too. And the man you're seeing, dead at your feet? That isn't Axel. Not in the slightest." He said.

Kara wondered at James's words. She didn't know how he knew all this. She couldn't understand the implications, so she asked someone who certainly did. "What does it mean?" She inquired.

"It means that you don't need to fear being weak, Kara. You're beyond strong. Stronger than anyone who entered this complex, and stronger than anyone who's left. Whatever we're fighting against is the same as any player in this game - it doesn't like strong opponents. These illusions are directed at you because you're the best, Kara, and they're an attempt to weaken your resolve. They did, when you almost died a few minutes ago. You had a gun. That man didn't. If you hadn't seen Axel, you would have been conscious, shooting, helping me kill these things. So, Kara, you don't need to fear these illusions. If anything, you should only fear that they're working."

Kara digested this. Like most of what James said, it made sense... except for the part about her being strong. She didn't feel strong right now.

"I know you don't feel strong right now," James said, "but that's exactly the goal of our enemy. To make you feel weak."

James was too smart. There was one thing that he hadn't considered, though. "Well, you may be right." Kara said. She tried to steady her voice, failed. "But if anything can be an illusion, how do I differ from reality? Even your speech right there. It seemed real to me, but so does the face of Axel."

James pondered. And he pondered some more. After a minute, he'd been pondering so long that Kara had to ask him what he was pondering so much.

"I'm working on it. Give me a moment." He said.

James closed his eyes. It was dimly lit in the cave, and quiet, too. The only sounds came from distant echoes, water dripping from stalactites. With his eyes closed like this, he could almost deprive himself of his senses.

He travelled back to Floor Four. He remembered it in all the detail that he could, and he watched carefully as the lights shut off, listened for any sound, pictured every vivid detail. He watched Axel come closer as the light returned. He focused on the feeling. He focused on his mind.

He felt something rustle. It was a strong presence, unseen but unmissable. It fled easily from sight, but James's sight went beyond the eyes. He perceived it reaching in, only altering a small detail of vision, a detail small enough that it wouldn't be noticed. Just the lightest change, the tiniest addition, and its presence would usually not be noted. But James was not usual.

James seized the feeling of the alteration, inspecting it in his mind. It stood sorely out now, turning his stomach when he looked upon it. "Look at the body." James said quietly. "But don't use your thoughts. No memory. Only use your eyes."

Kara did, and there was a disturbing feeling in the pit of her stomach when she saw that she didn't recognize the face she viewed. It hadn't changed, she'd just ceased to see Axel, and Axel had disappeared. And a terrible presence skimmed the folds of her mind, running over the cranium. "No." She whispered, and it fled away.

"I felt it." She told James. "I found the maker of the illusions."

"Do you think you could look for him, Kara? Could you see him if he were to show you something fake?" James asked. She nodded. The feeling was too distinct to miss. If every illusion would be accompanied by this sensation, she'd never believe an illusion again.

Matt moaned himself awake. Kara did a quick check to determine whether he was truly getting up, and felt no influence from illusion. It was working.

"Damn." Matt yawned. "What the hell happened here?" Matt referred to the bodies strewn across the floor.

"I didn't kill all of them." James said. "I could have, but they all ran away before I got the chance."

"Well, in any case, we're almost out of here." Matt said. "Let's just follow that ramp for a while. That's totally the truck's old way out, right James?"

James nodded. "And we'll be home in time for supper." He murmured.

A spark of hope ignited in Kara's chest. She hadn't considered the possibility of this ending. She'd assumed that she might die in here, effort expent against delusions no more than a last stand, an attempt to die with sanity intact. But it turned that she may be minutes from liberation.

Or not. The ramp ended prematurely, covered in impassable rubble. Two hours were spent tearing at rocks to no avail. Matt kept at it until his hands were bloody, terrified at the prospect of not getting out, until James had to pull him away. Matt rested against the pile. Though it could hardly be called resting - Matt's hands shook and his eyes stayed large.

The spark extinguished.

They returned to the smoldering vehicle. Heroine fumes rose from bubbling plastic, so Kara kept a careful radius. Her stomach rumbled. She wondered if there was any food in the truck.

"What do we do now?" Matt looked to James for the answer.

James was pensive. He did not think aloud - he never did - but it was clear that he was working through their escape. "We head northwest." He said, with no elaboration.

"Why?" Matt asked.

"To get out." James.

"And northwest, that's the way out for what reason?" Matt demanded.

James didn't answer, only headed down a concrete tunnel and listened to two pairs of footsteps behind him. But Kara had little faith that this would be the way out. _The only way out is down._

As the hours stretched on, Kara's hunger grew. She tried to control it, but matter was beating out mind. Her head was not getting the right amount of nutrition, it was hungry, she required some sustenance, she was starving, she was parched. And the dark shadows of the tunnel enveloped her thin ray of flashlight, ready to constrict at any moment, suffocate it from existence.

She wanted to say something, if only to break the monotonous drone of feet on concrete. James was too focused to speak, but she didn't know just what he was focusing on. Matt walked as quietly as he could, as though the slightest sound would bring death bounding from the shadows. And Kara felt that death had already come for her tongue. But there was a moment of reprieve. Her ears perked when she heard a thin whisper from the tunnel's edge. When casting her light over it revealed nothing, she carried on, but replayed the sound in her mind, trying to remember it. After all, there had to be some sound other than footsteps.

The whisper came again, this time from the opposite wall. Kara remembered the first one with great detail, and the same cadence and tone had returned. She swept her light over it again, and again found nothing.

James stopped. Focused on something on the ground. He peered down, eyes searching through a thin mist of smoke. Matt stopped before him and searched the ground. Matt's eyes came up to lock with Kara's, and he shook his head. There was nothing there.

But James was still looking, intent, face contorted in confusion. Matt dared not whisper his name, but brought a flashlight to his face. He found James's eyes to be dilated and jittery.

James shook out of it, reaching to push away the flashlight. There had been nothing there. He went on.

Kara heard the whisper again, and she knew that she was being spoken to. She didn't make any words, but managed to mouth a reply to the whisper. _Say it louder._ Went her lips.

And the whisper responded.

"_The only..."_

She heard it. There it was, the whisper again, and she heard the beginning. But the rest had faded into an incomprehensible hiss.

"_...only way..."_

James stopped again, then backed away, eyes vibrating, fixated on the ground before him. His teeth chattered, and he clutched at his wounds.

"_...way out..."_

Kara raised her flashlight to James's patch of ground, but there was nothing there, just the whisper, and the whisper was listening, getting louder...

"_...only way..."_

And louder, and higher, as though it were coming from close, from just nearby, and her beam raised, parting through the fog, flickered as

"_KARA"_

it found darkness, a form jutting from the ground, seen only for blocking the light's path, hard and cold and impossible to illuminate

"_...way is..."_

and the beam kept upward, flickered, a form, a form came, perfect, perfectly black

"_ASHES"_

and Axel went through her mind and the darkness of the tunnel became the darkness of the shower because there was no fate as dark as that which Kara had seen stock still then dead then alive then dead again

"_...is down."_

Her flashlight fizzled out.

It was pulled down and out of existence with a concrete clang and a shatter of glass.

But before it hit the ground, Kara recalled how Axel's face had disappeared from an earlier aggressor as soon as she knew it to be an illusion. And she noticed the strange feeling of an intruder skirting along her mind, feeding her thoughts that were not her own. The flashlight broke against the concrete and pulled her back to reality. She pulled James's flashlight from his hand and held it like a torch towards her imaginary foe, and found nothing had stood there but a well played facade.

Her light showed James staring blankly at the mist before him, shaking, and Matt kneeling, covering his eyes with both hands.

"Mom." James muttered to the mist. "You're so frail."

Kara grabbed his chin and pulled it in her direction. James's eyes were wide, boyish, and naive. "James," Kara said, tears welling and glistening, "you're our only hope. Please, you can't be seeing things too, please..."

James touched her hand, then looked back at the mist. "3:16." He consoled. "So you can't be dead."

"James." Kara repeated.

"I know." James said, looking away, an edge entering his voice. "I'm not seeing... there's no..."

He took a moment to compose himself. "We continue." James said without a tone. But Matt would not get up, and they had to carry him bodily to continue.

But before they got far, they heard another noise in the distance. Kara's inner monologue attained a long forgotten ember of ire, gaining so much ego as to almost scorn a second attempt to scare her. But the growl continued, and footsteps approached at an inconsistent pace. The feeling of alteration was fresh in her mind, and this was surely another trick.

But then the snarling man came into sight and leaped on Kara, knocking her to the ground. He pinned her wrists so hard that they bruised, and was prepared the moment James came to help. The man swung a fist that jerked James's jaw to the right, then grabbed a packet of clean filters from James's belt.

James whipped the man with his pistol, but a burst of black fire appeared from the man's hands, blowing James back and dimming the two flashlights. Kara fired haphazardly at the man's head, but her gun was soon grabbed and turned on her.

As she struggled to keep the barrel away from her face, a knife skidded across the ground to stop at her foot. There was no way she could reach it, though, in her current state. She inched a foot towards it, but found her head slammed against the wall, blood tainting blond hair.

The man's attention was diverted by James tackling from behind. He used all his weight to force the man to the ground. Just before the man took Kara's gun and shot James, Kara picked up the knife and put it through the man's eye.

A burst of black fire marked the snarling man's death and pushed back James and Kara. The filters ignited and burned.

To ashes.

"Dammit." Said James from the ground. His voice was clipped and terse. "Dammit, we need those filters. How many do you have on you?" He asked Kara. She said three. He asked the same of Matt, and Matt didn't respond. So he said it louder. "Hey, Matt!" James called, looking Matt in the face. Matt was dull-eyed and deadpan. No response. So James rifled through Matt's military jacket until he found a few filters, and he passed them all to Kara. "You can have them as soon as you get up, Matt." He said, venom plain in his voice. Something had suddenly shifted in James.

"It doesn't matter." Kara whispered. They weren't going to get out anyways. After all, loss was relentless in its taking. But James didn't listen.

"Alright then." He said, and kept down the tunnel.

"Wait." Said Kara. He didn't stop. "Wait." She said again. But the darkness was too thick to speak through. It had overwhelmed her nerve and projection, taken James's empathy and perception. She was forced to be loud. "Wait, James!" She said. He stopped this time. "We need to take Matt."

"If Matt wants to die, he can die." James.

"Please." Kara pleaded tonelessly. "James."

"Why?" James asked, turning quickly. "What use is a comatose idiot?"

Kara looked away. James had turned on her a fire he'd only ever reserved for his enemies. But she supposed that the darkness had torn down his filters. "For me." She said, giving a last effort.

A conflict raged in James's mind. But Kara won over his anger. She was his consolation, his last pacifier. He needed to keep her. Kara's life was a fragile barrack, but it shielded him from the slings and arrows of his past.

He hoisted Matt onto a shoulder, turned off one flashlight to preserve power, and carried on through the hungry cold. She trailed closely behind him, watching uneven footsteps and listening to erratic pacing.

"_Run, run." _Came a goading whisper. She knew it was fake, but it wouldn't go away.

A day passed. The dark of the caverns may as well have been the heat of the sun, the concrete or stone floors dry sand, for that alone could describe the limitless mirages brought on by hunger, thirst, confusion, and trickery. It became difficult to discern even simple speech from auditory lies. Once she thought she heard James muttering some ancient verse, again and again, but there'd been so much mental interference that she couldn't tell if it was real.

They'd moved ceaselessly northwest, but never reached their mysterious destination. Many strange locations passed them by without incident, but many revoked their clearance in the form of burning black eyes. James had become far less clinical in killing those that attacked him: Teeth were more often employed than not, and he had no fear of gouging eyes or tearing throats. He became drenched in blood and made little effort to clear it off. It became difficult for Kara to discern him from the enemy.

Fatigue burned at her muscles, but sleep wouldn't come. It was impossible to tell the night from the day. That's why sleep was so elusive, but she wouldn't have slept if she could. She was certain that no dreams would wait for her but night terrors. Or, day terrors. Whatever.

One day, after countless hours of dead ends and wrong turns, the group was assailed by fiery barrels. Matt took several bullets to the lungs, but he wouldn't have lived in any case. He hadn't asked for his filters, so James hadn't given them.

James's knife jerked as the serrated edge went through a living soldier's neck. The muscle, then especially the bone was quite tough, and the sawing came as a lurching movement. The soldier didn't scream, though, because the black eyed things didn't do that.

Then James did something worse, but Kara tried not to pay attention. There was no hope of Matt's recovery, and Kara assumed that James didn't desire for him to recover. She looked away while James did what he did. She covered her ears when the noises started.

When James called her over, she had trouble standing. Her legs were wobbly, thin. She hadn't eaten in what seemed like days, and her face was showing signs of emaciation. Matt was gone from his lying position, nowhere to be seen. In his place was a small fire with a large amount of meat roasting on a spit.

_Tantalizing,_ she thought of the scent, but she then recalled the story behind the word. Tantalus had been cursed for his crime. It hadn't just been one against humanity, against his son, but one against the gods. Not that she believed in them any more. Still, her hunger drove her nearer the fire, to a smell so delicious that she would have salivated were not she so parched. A dry tongue felt strange over chapped lips.

"Here." James said, offering her some meat. Her conscience worried away at the issue, but it didn't stop her starving body from biting the flesh, bone of tooth meeting bone of arm, finger catching a droplet of hot juice to bring back to her lips. James watched her as she ate. "This, too." He said, handing her his water bottle. She drank it quickly, ignoring how it was so much thicker than water.

"Eat slower." James murmured. She'd been ravaging the meal, even though she knew better. It was hard to abide by the rule, but she didn't want this food wasted by nausea. She slowed.

When she was full, she lay on the ground, preparing another vain attempt to rest. James came to her before she could close her eyes, the fire behind him giving a warm glow, until she felt he was shrouded in angelic wings. Was that another illusion? She couldn't tell anymore.

He gently took out her filter and replaced it with a fresher one. James didn't want her to fall asleep with a used filter, or she'd wake up a used thing. Used by an entity she never wanted to meet. As James cared for her, she rested up against his body, his and the fire's warmth being the first she'd felt in long days. She wondered why James would even give such a useless asset such a valuable resource as a filter. "I'm no better than Matt." She whispered to him as they closed their eyes against the wall. "You're the only one who has a chance of living here. Take the filter for yourself."

"Oh, Kara." He soothed, running a hand gently up and down her arm. "The King will answer and say to them, 'Truly, to the extent that you did it to these brothers of mine, even the least of them, you did it to me.' There is only giving, Kara."

His voice was soft and kind, filled with a compassion that made her forget James's more heinous deeds. There were only the words, little as they made sense, and how they sounded to her wounded ear. And she would never sleep with a stomach full of that fire's meat, but she would rest against James now, with closed lids, until they both faded away from this place.

And as she waited for her eternal sleep to come, an idle part of her wondered what had been burned to make the fire.

Next morning, she was the first to hear the noise of approaching men. "James." She spoke, bringing him instantly awake. The fire had died down, leaving little more than hot embers, and deserting them both in the cold.

James leaped silently up, stalking towards the source of the sound, pulling a log from the fire on the way.

Oh, not a log. More body parts. A leg.

Finding that last night's food had given her some energy, Kara moved just as stealthily to help him. She found that her old habits had unconsciously returned, the stone below giving no indication that it was being stepped on.

James was on them just as the group of three black-eyed soldiers appeared, swinging the ember-covered leg at one of them, sparks scattered, soldier stumbled, flames raced. But James didn't stop, immediately plunging his knife into the one behind him, kicking out the knee of the other with such power that the joint buckled behind.

The one with James's knife in its chest drew an Agency machete from its belt. James swiftly broke its wrist and took the machete, swinging it at the burning soldier, fire now spread across its entire body, poisonous smoke rising. The soldier caught the machete, unhurt even though the edge bit into its skin. The dark blood that dripped out burned like lighter fluid on the blade's surface. James held the soldiers gripping arm to slice off four fingers, and when grabbed from behind, tore the already-lodged knife from chest to forehead. Then he brought the blade down on the other limping soldier, leaving a burning gash on its chest. That one advanced, so he rolled behind it, slashed its throat, and poured the ensuing stream of blood on the other. The blood ignited, and James's enemies were left in a pool of flame.

Kara had not once stepped in to help. "We will have been heard. Get the food." James said.

They kept on. Kara marveled at James's fighting ability. It did not seem that he had gained any new skills, only that he had let loose anything that had formerly been his restraint. Kara thought of the way the soldiers had burned. Flammable blood, producing the same black smoke that poisoned the entire complex. Of course, their meat had been cooked over that fuel. Ergo, they'd eaten meat infused with the poison smoke.

"James." Kara said.

"Kara." James replied.

"You cooked the meat using the soldiers' bodies, right?" She asked.

The answer was obvious, and he didn't respond.

"Well, the soldiers are full of the poison that we're wearing gas masks against." Not that it mattered much to her. She felt near death, only hoping that James could somehow slaughter his way out of this deathtrap.

_Out? _Asked her mind. _The only way out is down._

But James didn't feel the same way. He stopped dead, eyes wide. "What?" He asked.

She stopped too, and turned. His mind was racing.

"That's..." He began, breathless. "I didn't think of that."

"I only just did." Said Kara.

"But. But, that is what I always think of. That's just perception. Why didn't I think of that? That's _exactly _the kind of thing I think of." James was thinking aloud, something Kara had seldom seen him do. His face revealed a clear anxiety, and he looked quickly around himself, searching for some unseen invader. He swatted the air.

"That's exactly the thing." He muttered, his face showing what Kara had felt when she saw Axel: Confusion, worry, a loss of an integral part of self.

"I wonder what the meat will do." He wondered aloud. Kara feared the answer.

James spent that night apparently reconciling his blindness with his need to perceive. To compensate for his earlier concession, he sought out a black-eyed soldier and drained the blood from its body. James spent that night (or dawn, noon, afternoon, dusk - it was impossible to tell) altering cartridges of a grenade launcher to contain blood filled packets. The following morning, among their incredible Agency technology was a fiery grenade launcher that was inescapably perilous to their foes, whose ammunition was located in their victims' chests.

James offered her the modified device, but she denied it, wary of anything with that evil blood in it. She was content to let James burn their enemies to death.

"How many bodies would it take to open that ceiling?" James mused. The result was far too high, an amount of explosives only a group of Agency units could haul in, so they headed to their northwest destination.

A new wave of strange effects washed over Kara, this one not induced by insomnia or hunger. Her skin became less sensitive. The nails of a soldier once raked across her arm hard enough to draw blood, and it was only when she saw her own blood dripping to the floor that she registered more than a stinging sensation.

She also cared less about things. Much as she'd been anticipating the answer, Kara could barely hold interest when James told her his theory of interconnecting complex tunnels. It made sense, a good explanation for this labyrinthian passageway, but all she still had the passion to be interested in was fighting off the lies and whispers of her manipulator. They had grown exponentially more invasive, some minor illusion or other within her view no matter which way she turned.

She couldn't tell, but it seemed that some of her apathy, some of her delusions, and some of her numbness had come from a recent meal. She tried to explain this to James, but he couldn't see her meaning. He demanded that they hunt for drink. So Kara and James stalked their victims, knowing that the soldiers were not trying to hide themselves. They found a large group: Six. James still had his flame launcher, but set it silently down. He didn't want to burn the blood, for he needed it.

The black-eyed soldier prey patrolled their area, waiting for someone to kill. But the black fire that had burned away their minds had taken also their perception, and the prey was not intelligent enough to notice the hazards of its environment. This one was a large cavern, complete with stalactites and stalagmites, but also fitted with manmade (Agency-made) structures. Any weapons or resources had been burned by the prey, but terraforming had been left intact. So Kara and James quietly ascended the heights of the chamber, where they looked down on their enemies from a concrete alcove.

James handed Kara one pistol. It was the last of the two firearms they possessed, and James had the other. James was more reckless than ever before. Without warning Kara or telling her any plan, he dropped a combat knife point-first on the head of one of their six prey, distanced from the primary group so as not to alarm them. The distance of the drop killed the victim instantly, spine fracturing and head pushing closer to shoulders. 1/6. At the same time, James himself landed feet-first on a victim in the middle of the group, crushing it easily. 2/6. His machete came quickly, removing the head of one, 3/6, then his pistol let an entire clip into another, 4/6. Kara was in wonder of his speed, killing four demi-immortals in seconds, but she had time neither to watch nor to offer supporting fire. A seventh soldier came from behind her and dealt a devastating punch to her throat, laying her on the concrete ground. She emptied her clip on him, but apparently not with the precision of James, for the soldier kept coming. It took her helmet, complete with filters attached, and threw it to the ground below. She held her breath against the poison air.

_HELP! _She shouted in her mind. She needed a filter, James's filter. She needed to kill this thing and get down and kill James's prey and take a filter all without a single breath. The prey grabbed her foot to keep her from backing away. It held her foot above his shoulder, so she was supported on the ground by only her elbows and head. It drew a knife, and it looked like a knife that Axel might wield.

No, no, she couldn't think that way, this wasn't Axel, it was a trick, she couldn't succumb to it.

"_It is Axel, Kara. Don't you want to kill him? Let me help you. Let me inside, and you'll kill him so he'll never come back."_

No, the whisper was fake, and Axel's face wasn't really before her. She tried to look past it into reality, but this time she couldn't. The knife grazed along her stomach, not cutting, but waiting for a higher command.

"_You can kill him, Kara, don't you believe it? Just breathe, and you can kill him."_

No, she wouldn't breathe. She wouldn't let it in. She refused to accept this...

Then the blade pierced skin, and she involuntarily gasped.

Breathing poison into her lungs.

And in the heat of her panic, black fire erupted from her hands, knocking the soldier to the ground. She stood quickly, and the soldier stood slowly, and when it stood, she punched it off the ledge, black fire following her fist.

James was fighting one remaining victim, standing by a most recent corpse that was speared on a stalagmite and missing its automatic rifle. 5/7. James looked up to the alcove at the sound of black fire, and shot Kara's victim as it fell. 6/7. In doing so, James sustained a volley of bullets from the victim just behind him. They exited his stomach and sent him tumbling to the ground.

_JAMES!_ Kara screamed at him through her mind. He couldn't have heard, of course, but James seemed to have registered the shout, for he looked her directly in the eye as he fell.

She didn't know just what happened, only that some other force was leaving hold of her body as she knelt beside a bleeding James and a dead 7/7. She took one of James's filters and sucked clean air through it. Immediately, the force's hold further diminished.

But it didn't leave.

"James, James, you need to wake up, James, come on." She said. There were countless bullet holes in his belly, but they'd all gone clean through, so she didn't need to take out the bullets. She tore a shirt off of one of their prey, and used it to bind James's stomach. The blood seeped through, dripping to the ground, mixing with the strange, lustrous, silvery-red blood of the soldiers. My, the blood was odd. Luminous. Entrancing.

As she stared into the pool, she saw her own reflection. She met her own gaze, and found her eyes to be black.

_No,_ she thought, closing them. It was just an illusion again, probably. She wrapped another shirt around James's wounds.

"Kara." He said, working to keep the croak out of his voice. After some wandering, his pupils aimed towards hers. "I heard you, Kara."

She didn't know what he was talking about.

"You called for me. You told me to help. Then you said my name. You called for me. How'd you do that, Kara?" James.

"I don't know." She murmured. She kept wrapping the holes.

"_I know." _Said the whisper.

_Don't listen._ She thought, trying to push out the invading thoughts.

"_Just take off your filter. Then you can call for anyone. Come, it would be so easy to drop it, to let me in."_ Said the whisper.

"No." She said aloud.

"_Let me in. I saved you from the soldier when you breathed me. Do it again."_

"_You can get out. Just give me control."_

"_LET ME IN."_

Even talk from James was no distraction from the whisper, for James muttered odd nonsense aloud. "Sarai, my mistress... go back to your mistress... submit." A tear rolled down Kara's cheek.

"_LET ME IN."_

"Submit, therefore, to God... the devil... the devil... will flee." James.

He reached up and touched Kara's face, crooning, loving, saying that he knew that his mother was alive. "I never lost faith." He promised with the clouded eyes of a blind man. "I was only scared, and hurt. I never stopped believing."

"_LET ME IN."_

So she hit her head against the floor. It jarred her, but she could hardly feel the pain. She hit again, so blood dripped down her forehead. And again, and she finally fell asleep, for the first time in days.

Bad dreams.

And when she awoke, the lights were burnt out. James had not ceased his whispering, but he did it quietly now, cradling his knees to his chest. Silvery blood was dried on his face. He'd been drinking the blood, for he was as thirsty as Kara. She looked, and saw that all of their filters were had been rendered useless, fallen into the poisonous blood and soaked in it.

She stood, swayed, walked off to a corner. There was a small alcove there, and she sat in it, back to the wall, eyes closed, head rested up against the concrete. Another tear fell, and she hoped it would be the last one she ever shed. She could make sure of it.

Clipped to her belt was a holster. Inside the holster was a small, silver gun. In the gun's chamber was one bullet.

She turned off the safety and deftly pulled back the hammer. It was the only thing she was good at. And she'd finally have the perfect shot that every marksman dreamed of attaining.

"_You'd better not. Take that bullet and go with it to North Complex. There are plenty of worthy targets there."_ Hissed evil.

No. There was only one target worthy of her bullet. One, last target. She held the pistol to her chin, steel still hot from its last use. The warmth was nice. It was the warmth of freedom.

"_Not yet, Kara."_

Trigger finger pressed down. Goodbye to the Agency, goodbye to her family, goodbye to James. Hello to Harry. Hello to Matt.

_The only way out._

But before the trigger fell, her radio buzzed to life, the first time it had done so since she'd entered this dead place. This would not distract her from her target. But of its own accord, her mind reached out to it, grasping for It was the same communication she'd felt with James. Only now the receiver was much farther away.

Someone was on the other end. She couldn't hear or see them, but she could feel them somehow. She tested the connection, thinking through the radio waves.

"Who is this?" She thought to them. But as she asked, she knew that it was Sheriff Jay, primary benefactor of the Agency. She could feel the room, that the radio was off, that the Sheriff could hear static, that she was too quiet, but that he was listening closely for her words.

She had an idea. The Sheriff could help her. There was no possibility of her and James making it all the way to North Complex, but James had said the roof could be blown with sufficient explosives.

Then she thought that Sheriff Jay could send medicine as well. Maybe they could use whatever was in the filters to cure James, to cure her.

The Sheriff was still listening for her voice, so she sent it loudly. She winced as a burst of noise came at the Sheriff, but was relieved to see that he didn't stop listening. She started softly again, slowly rising until she reached the right volume, repeating the same message again and again:

"SOS, Sheriff Jay, this is the East Complex, please respond. I repeat, this is the East Complex, we are in distress, please respond."

Finally, he replied. Her gun fell unfired to the ground to be replaced by the radio held close to her face, and her one tear of sadness was replaced by many tears of joy. She might escape now. In her excitement, she forgot to manage the volume. It spiked, but she returned it back to normal.

She attempted to regain the concise prose of a soldier as she told him quickly of her situation. He pried, and eventually asked how she could communicate from the radio-deadened complex. She, in her soldier-like honesty, was forced to tell him the uncomfortable truth. The pace of her breathing increased as she recounted her disgusting encounter with blood and meat. But he reacted not with surprise, more as though her defect was a power, and one to take advantage of.

He directed her to a channel to file a report, and she gained a deeper control of her ability. But it wasn't an ability, she told herself. It was a curse wrought by a poisonous whisper.

His inquisition continued, but a footstep drew her attention away. James had already heard it, and disregarding his debilitating injury, was standing astute, hands clenched. _No, no, James, you can't fight it._

James lumbered towards the sound.

Gunfire erupted at James, and she dropped the radio, inconsiderate of the static that burst forth in the far distance.

"James!" She shouted. "Come on, please, we can't fight them! James, come!"

He took a couple bullets to the arm. Kara knew James didn't feel them, though, because he'd consumed far more poison than her. His face was set in a hateful gaze as he approached them.

"Fffffuck that." He said. "Fffffuck their guns. I'll kill... I'll kill 'em with my _goddamn hands."_

And he did, cracking their bones and laughing.

The Sheriff confirmed the details of her rescue plan without showing any semblance of worry about the violence that was close occurring. She sobbed for him to bring medicine as she watched the scene of the battle. James bashed the head of one against the chest of the other, then kicked in any ribs that might not have been fractured, then stomped the ribs to shards when it was on the ground.

Then she ran out to catch him as he fainted from exhaustion.

She listened to the radio all night, just to block out the sound of James's biblical chanting. She'd missed having an inkling of what time it was, so she took advantage of the station's monotonous broadcast. There was no more whispering. The reprieve seemed almost like a reward.

The next morning, her rescuers entered the facility. She guided them in, taking them down the least treacherous paths she could, but it didn't really matter. Every path was treacherous. At the time that they arrived at B2, Kara saw an enemy, ran through water, evaded its bullets, and killed it with black fire before it could kill her. She tried to hide her panting, but it didn't work.

As her rescuers walked through B2, B3, and finally the sewers below, their observations reminded Kara of her own perilous journey. They made her relive every moment, every battle, every teammate's death - her teammates were very similar to her rescuers, and her rescuers died aplenty in B3. She decided that if she made it out of here alive, she'd quit the Agency and never fight again.

But then she considered something that she hadn't before. It was the smoke of the whisper's soldiers that had given her the power to communicate this way, and the whisper who had told her to call for help. Her heart sank. Nothing she said mattered anymore. The whisper had gotten just what it wanted from her, and her rescuers were not rescuers anymore; they had all become the distressed. Of course, she couldn't send them back. She'd learned that when she'd come down for the first time, that nobody could go back anymore.

Kara listened, crestfallen, as more and more of them died, and as their weapons decreased to nothing. Though there were no soldiers in the room... her rescuers were close, very close now, and maybe they would blow through the ceiling before anything happened. Pull the unconscious James from the room, escape forever. Kara and James could spend the rest of their lives happy, maybe together.

Not so. Kara saw her rescuers enter, and suddenly the stone cavern was swarmed with soldiers. They were each equipped with a gun, but their numbers were so great that none of them were drawn. Kara saw the fire die in the eyes of the leader of her rescuers, and heard her speak through the radio.

"Officer Eila reporting to base." Said the policewoman. "We are out of ammunition. There are too many of them to fight. This... this will be my last report."

Kara was stabbed from behind. Twice. And bitten. And stabbed. And carved. She fell to the ground headfirst, hardly feeling the soldiers who'd set upon her body. She watched the carnage, as black fire burned and red blades sliced everything. She idly searched the throng for her love, James, and saw him swaying in the battleground, muttering, somehow dodging the violence around him. He was illuminated by that same soft, warm glow he'd had back at the fire. She saw angel wings around him, and a halo atop his head.

His image blurred and faded, and she let herself burn out like a flashlight, muffled screams no longer touching her mind. She felt her soul being pulled down somewhere deep, warm, far away, and knew at last the meaning of those happy words.

_The only way out is down._

While Kara died, James felt the strength of God healing his wounds.

"_Do not kill these soldiers, for they know not what they do." _God whispered to James. But James didn't hear, because he perceived only what he wanted to. And he wanted to watch in reverence as the room around him burnt a fiery orange.

"I am God's tool." He said to the room, eyes closed. Through his devotion, he released himself from the bonds of the Earth, ascending a few feet into the air. His arms raised at either side. "I will purge this evil, for humanity." And he was flying through the tunnel, back the way they'd come, heading for the surface. And if B1 wouldn't let him enter, he'd tear B1 from the Earth.

"I will be The Savior."


End file.
